


What Could Have Been

by LadyFangs



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 62,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: Sequel to "Many Waters" (please read first).When Ragnar dies he goes to Valhalla, where Odin grants him a second chance to live his life again. Will he make the same choices? Or will he choose another path?





	1. Chapter 1

**What Could Have Been**

 

He is home.

Home.

His wife, and his children are here. His farm. His old life.

Ragnar holds them tight and keeps them closer than he ever did before. They puzzle at his behavior, and Lagertha laughs at his possessiveness. But he will not tell them why. And they do not ask about what has changed. He thinks they rather like it this way.

He is trying to walk a different path. To not repeat the same mistakes that doomed him the first time. Yet it seems as if the gods have set their own plan, and he is powerless to stop it. When he makes one turn, another set of circumstances emerge to push him back into familiar positions. There are certain things beyond his control, compelling him to take actions that he knows what the end result will be.

It is his wife who brings home the wanderer with the keys to the west.

Opportunity, she tells him. A whole new world for their people—a new hope, a possible end to the endless fighting over what little they have of their own to cultivate. If the land is good, Lagertha says, their people could prosper there. In her eyes there is hope, passion. It is almost like a religious fever. She is pleading with him, begging him for this—the chance to fulfill a dream. It has been spoken between them many times, they have lusted for it—to explore, to discover new worlds, distant lands and to do it together. He and his wife are farmers. They are the children of farmers, and because they farm, they have more than most. And they have worked hard to provide a living for their kinsmen. Yet they also stand apart. There are others among their generation who have become blood thirty and battle hungry, more interested in acquiring by blood and death than by sweat and toil.

Lagertha is correct. He knows this. And he knows he really has no choice but to go west again, over her protestations of being left behind.  It is a necessity. He must go and he must bring home a lost friend. It is the only way.

Seeing Athelstan again provides a comfort to his heart and to his mind. And it enables his wife to join him again. It enables him to protect Lagertha, and this time, it is Ragnar who kills Earl Haraldson’s brother.  

When it is done, and he sees the blood on his hands and on his axe, he knows his path is set in certain things. He knows he is destined to become king. Destined to rule. And he is willing to accept that fate.

But he will not lose Lagertha. And he will fight against Odin, Thor, Baldar, Frigg and Freya on this point.

Ragnar will not give up his wife. Not this time.

When Lagertha tells him she is pregnant, after nine long years of trying and trying, he is immediately beset by happiness—followed instantly by fear. She does not understand why.

“This is our dream, my husband,” she says. “The gods have finally given us another child. Why are you so sad?”

He cannot bring himself to tell her the truth-- to destroy her happiness. So instead he stays close to her, loving on her as much as he can. He rubs her growing belly and whispers to the child inside, telling his unborn son that he loves him more than he will ever know, and that one day, he knows they will meet.  Lagertha understands. They are 27 and 28, quickly nearing mid-life.  Most children born to families come when their parents are still young. By every measure this is a late pregnancy, and a delicate one.

 She too prays daily, and sometimes they pray together to Odin, Frigg and Freyja. He even comes back from Northumbria early, but it does not change the outcome.

When it happened the first time it had been his slave, Athelstan who had comforted Ragnar’s wife through her grief. Athelstan had stood in the place Ragnar should have been, and he remembers the many times the monk told him of this, never allowing him to forget his failures as a father, as a husband, as a brother and as a friend. These were the failures that broke his marriage, and ruined his life.

This time, instead of his slave caring for his wife’s broken body, it is he who takes up the task.

Ragnar washes her face. He picks her up from the bed and removes her bloodied gown. He carries her to the bath and he washes her gently to cleanse her body of the aftermath. Her husband, not her slave, puts her to bed, crying with her to mourn the loss of their son instead of leaving her to face it alone as she had to do the last time.

The miscarriage is every bit as devastating for him in this life as it was in the last. And for the first time, he begins to question and doubt whether this is truly his second chance at life, or if he is doomed to relive the first.

Doubt begins to form in his mind. Why was he gifted this second chance to not be afforded a real choice? Or is there a single choice he must make in order to redefine his destiny? Is this really a second life or is he trapped in Hel? Did he not make it into Valhalla? Is he being forced to relive his past mistakes? Was his first shot not good enough? Was his death futile? Has he displeased the gods in some manner already?

Ragnar has seen his future and that of his wife. The miscarriage was the first strike against them, and he is worried they are again heading toward that end.

He remembers the exact day she left him; how he felt watching her retreat, his son with her. The fear  he would never see them again. He remembers being forced to compromise—to have her by his side on the battlefield, and forced to sleep with a stranger in his bed; of having to love her from a distance, and not being able to express or act on those feelings until right before his death. All the bitterness and anger and resentments and frustration between them! fueled by their stubbornness and their pride.  Two people so alike they drove each other crazy, and they drove each other away.

But perhaps, there will be more children—it is not too late for them. He has seen all his sons with his own eyes, watched their births, held them in his arms, and kissed their small faces. He must be patient. He must wait. He must keep the faith that it will be Lagertha who carries the rest of his legacy.

There is the familiar feeling of resentment…but he does not allow it to fester. Last time he pushed her away, resentful that she could not fulfill her obligation as a wife. Angry that she lost his son. And in that resentment and that anger he’d made a choice.

Now he draws her close. It is not Lagertha’s fault. He knows this now. And he prays daily. He prays to the gods to take away the pain. To take away the hurt. To take away his desire for more. He prays to the gods to allow him to be satisfied with Bjorn. But even as he prays…the feelings grow…the faces of his unborn sons still foremost in his mind.

He has seen them. He has witnessed their births, held them in his arms and watched them become men.

When he goes to Uppsala this time around and he prays at the altar of Odin. He tells the All Father that he will give up everything—His Earldom, his fame, his wealth—if his wife can give birth again. But when she passes him in the hall he sees that her eyes are sad, and he knows she is afraid. She has every reason to be. Even as he prays he is still uncertain about everything.  But his children call to him, and he feels them in the depths of his very being.

That night as they sit in their small hut in Uppsala Lagertha begs for him to stay inside. There are tears in her eyes, and this time, he understands her plea.

_Don’t leave me._

_Don’t leave us._

How had he missed this before? She is fearful she will lose him, and he does not deny that he is being tempted, yet again. But he refrains from leaving for now. Instead choosing to stay with his family, holding his wife and his children tight against his chest. When they are asleep, he does finally go out, ignoring the writhing mass of bodies all around him. He manages to ignore the two women who come up to him, naked and wanting, remember how he had indulged himself in them the first time, and the intense feelings of guilt immediately afterward.

His path takes him back inside the temple where the priests are sleeping. Carefully he steps around them and walks back up to the looming statue of Odin. Ragnar gets down on his knees, and presses his face against the worn wood.

“Odin, All Father,” he whispers. “Please give me strength. I am just a man. But I have seen my sons, I have cleaned them, and kissed them. They have brought me joy, and they have brought me peace. I do not wish to lose them.  Odin, give me strength… please allow Lagertha to bear my sons…”

He spends the night inside the temple on his knees and in prayer.


	2. Chapter 2

**There are certain things in this new life that are consistent with his old one. There are moments when he feels in complete control of his destiny and others where he feels as if he is repeating the same cycle, and is powerless to change it. This is one of those times.**

When he gets the command by King Horik to go to Gotaland he tries to deflect it.  But Horik is his king, and just like last time, he must go. But before he departs, Ragnar goes to the seer. He is curious—has he done enough to change his fate yet?

“The gods will take from you to make you whole,” the mystic says. “And you will fight for your life…and your _wife_.”

What does that mean? He tries to probe but the old man laughs at him, the sound harsh and raspy. “There are miles to go before you can sleep, Ragnar.”

“Where are you going?” Lagertha asks when he arrives home and begins packing his things.

“Gotaland” He tells her, trying to avoid this conversation.  “We are being sent to settle a land dispute between King Horik and an Jarl Borg.”

He sees the crinkle lines in her forehead, but Lagertha says nothing. Instead she moves toward him to study his face.

“You are worried about this?” She asks.

He looks at his wife. So beautiful. So passionate. Everything he has ever been or accomplished was done with her by his side. He cannot lose her. He cannot fail. Not this time.

 Ragnar doesn’t answer. Instead he picks her up and carries her into the bedroom, where he makes love to her as if it were his last time.

When he leaves for Gotaland with his son, Bjorn, Lagertha stares behind them, confused and concerned for her husband. She too has gone to the seer, and he has told her that Ragnar is in danger from the spiritual world.

One hand goes to her belly, now empty. She can only hope he will return.

**.**

**.**

There has been great difficulty in avoided the princess. So far he has refused her request for an apology for the behavior of his men while she was bathing. But he cannot ignore Aslaug once Torstein invites her into their camp. This time she is dressed in clothes and not fishnets. Still, Ragnar cannot deny the fact she is beautiful…and that she is the mother of his other sons.

That night, he resists her advances.  Bjorn is watching, and Ragnar knows his son will tell Lagertha.

What is this woman doing in a camp of all men? And why does she insist on staying? The men themselves ask this question, but Ragnar already knows the answer. He is refusing to accept it.

It goes on like this, three days, and three nights. And each time she comes to him, he resists, telling her no.  But his body is saying something else. And she is nothing if not persistent.

The last night she comes to him, he can no longer resist. It is as if some force holds him down, traps him as she climbs on top and the seed from his body is taken into hers. It is a strange experience. One he cannot put into words. Ragnar watches himself with Aslaug, as if seeing with someone else’s eyes. He knows very well what the result of this coupling will be.

She leaves him soon after, and he slowly comes back to himself, unsure of what to do or how to proceed. When he turns over he catches the accusing eyes of his son.

Bjorn does not understand what has happened. All he has seen is his father have sex with a woman not his mother. And Ragnar can’t begin to explain it to him. He can barely explain it to himself. But it has happened.

So he tries to reason with Bjorn, to cajole the child into silence. He tells his son that yes, he loves his mother. That Lagertha is the only woman he has ever loved. But he can see Bjorn is unconvinced and he can see how angry his son is with him. This does not bode well.

Aslaug’s pregnancy is unwelcome, and he considers killing himself, thinking maybe, maybe the gods will let him try again. But it is a fleeting thought.  He knows that will not be the case. He must find a way to deal with this. It seems as if he will have more sons, but this time there is nothing but grief.

He does not love this woman but yet she will bear him a son.  Again.

.

.

_Odin holds Frigg’s hand as they watch events unfold._

_“He has done well so far, husband,” she says. Odin nods. “Yes. But he is being very stubborn. This must happen. He must have these children.” Frigg nods. “He is like his father. Lagertha will not be pleased,” she says. “I am not pleased.”_

_“And yet you’ve tolerated me,” the All Father says, kissing his wife. “I remember you did not speak to me for years. Lagertha is just like her mother.” They know what must be done. It is how they created the pantheon—it is why they rule over all. Many children are needed. And many will come. Making children and making love are not the same. Yet both are necessary._

_“He will not fail this time. I am sure of this.”_

_._

_._

**-xxx-**

**The return home has been long. And he has been dreading stepping off the docks. His brother is in chains, a punishment fit for a traitor. And he has already received word that his daughter is dead. When he sees his wife he goes to her, and wraps her into his arms as Rollo is led away. They stay like that, holding each other close. Bjorn watches them. He has not forgotten.**

“Talk to me.”

Lagertha is looking at him, worry in his eyes.

The day has been long, the strain of the formalities of ruling coupled with his own troubled mind have made him tired. But not for sleep. He just wants relief. The great hall is empty, save for them—Siggy, Athelstan, Lagertha, Bjorn and Gyda.  He has just finished explaining what happened in Gotaland and with Rollo. And now all he wants is to rest. But his wife will not let him.

 He thinks he knows what is coming. And so, when she speaks to him he rises, and pulls her up with him. He looks at the others.

“Good night.”

They get the message, and begin to make themselves scarce. He looks at his son.

“You too, Bjorn.”

The boy stands and stares at him, and he can see, even now, the kind of man Bjorn will become. Fierce, like his father. And protective of his mother. Loyal only to his family. Ragnar knows his child is debating—whether to defy him, or to obey him. Finally, Bjorn decides to leave. But not without casting a long, hard look at his father.

Ragnar is hoping that Bjorn has not told Lagertha yet. Perhaps it will allow him the chance to explain.

But when the doors to their private rooms close, and they are alone, she turns on him.

“Who is Aslaug?”

He can see the rage building in his wife. But before she can strike, her grabs her wrists, and forces their bodies together.

“Listen to me.” It comes out hard, but he knows this is the way it must be.

Lagertha begins to struggle against him and it takes all of his strength to contain her and keep himself wrapped around her. His wife is strong, years of training as a shield maiden have made her quick, and deadly. He knows that he is risking possible limbs to have this conversation. But it must be had, and if he has any hope of saving his marriage, it must be had now.

“Did you have sex with her?!” He remembers laughing at her the first time they went through this. It is not funny now.

“Yes.” A confession.

“How many times?”

“Once.”

“Do you love me? Do you care? About our family? About our son?”

His chest is burning, the searing flame of guilt and shame engulfing him because he knows that this is how it begins to end, and he doesn’t want it to.

“Calm down!” He commands her, squeezing her tighter. She slams the back of her foot on top of his, causing him to release her in reaction to the pain.

 The next punch is to his stomach, causing him to double over, and he’s only just able to block the right hook that comes perilously close to his face.

He blocks some of her blows as they rain down on him, and he deserves it. He knows he deserves it. But soon, she has burned herself out, and all they can do is stand at opposite ends of the room looking at each other.

 Lagertha is breathing hard, her eyes bright, her hands still balled into fists. And he—well, he knows exactly what he looks like. Defeated. Tired. He tastes blood in his mouth—a busted lip.

Ragnar limps over to the bed and sits, crossing his leg to examine his foot.  He honestly thinks she may have broken it.

“Yes,” he says. “I love you. And yes, I care. About our family, and about our son.”

“Then why? Why Ragnar?”

He gestures for her to come, but she will not, and resignedly he gets up and goes to her. But she jerks away from his touch.

He tries again, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her close, resting his head on her shoulder. One hand falls down toward her belly, and she freezes, but he keeps her there.

“I tried for three days and three nights to keep her away from me,” he says. “On the fourth night, I failed…” The next words he forces out of his mouth.

“She is pregnant. With my child.”

There is a strange sound, like choking, and like laughter, like the cry of a wounded animal and it takes him a moment to realize that it is his wife. He catches her before she can hit the ground, and they stay there like that, he holding her, as she cries until she can’t anymore, and sleep finally takes her.

He picks up Lagertha and carries her to the bed where he sits beside her, touching her face. She turns away from him but doesn’t wake up.

 _It cannot end like this,_ he muses, before climbing into bed beside her, and draping an arm around her waist.

_I will not let it end like this._

He wakes up the next morning alone, and when he walks outside the private quarters and into the great hall it is dark, and empty. No one is there. Ragnar puts on his boots and goes outside knowing where she has likely gone. Perhaps there they can talk. And hopefully he can persuade her to listen.

.

.

The little house in the mountains isn’t much, but it is hers. It was the home her father had built for her mother when they were married, and it is the place where she was born and raised. It brings comfort, this home, and it has always been a refuge of sorts when there are storms. And right now, the wind and the oceans are churning in her heart, and in her mind.

There is a time to do, and a time to think. And now Lagertha must think. But setting aside emotions is hard, especially when it comes to her husband. Last night she had dreamed of murder and of revenge, and when she woke up and saw him sleeping beside her, she had yearned to put her sword through his chest. But it wouldn’t do to kill an earl. And he is still the father of her son. If he were any other man her decision would be quick. But he is not.

Ragnar is the only man she has ever loved. The only one she has ever dedicated her heart, and her body to. She had not known how deeply vested in him she was, until now. And there is the niggling problem of love, and of betrayal, of ruined expectations and broken hearts. The seer had told them when they were first married that Ragnar would have many sons. She remembers that day. They had gone together. And they were elated with the prophecy. He had been so happy—and because of the seer’s words, they had never worried about children before, convinced they would come in due time. That was 13 years ago. And they have only had two children. Now, they have only one.

Perhaps they should not have taken the seer so literally. Perhaps she should have asked _who_ would bear Ragnar these sons.

The house is cold. And it is not because of the weather. It is because her husband will soon have a new child by a woman who is not his wife. A woman who is not her. When she closes her eyes all she can see is Ragnar inside a woman with no face, but a name. And it cuts deeper than any blade.

She has known for a long time her husband wants more children. But she thought, at least, Ragnar was  happy with what he had. And they had tried. Their nights and days were spent ttrying. Their life on their farm had been so simple, those years full of pleasure and joy. He had been content with just Bjorn and Gyda, and she was too—there was no rush for them. It was as if time just stood still. Becoming an earl had only rekindled the restlessness in Ragnar’s soul, and losing their unborn son had set it aflame.

What should she do?

Every part of her is screaming to run. To flee. To leave—leave him to this new woman, allow him to lead a new life, to have a new family, because there is nothing she can do to give him what he wants. She feels as if she has failed as a wife, and as a woman, that she has become _less than_ because of this. It is a new feeling. It is the lowest, darkest of places.

Is it still worth fighting for? Is he worth fighting for? Are they still worth fighting for? Is this truly what the gods have intended?

A single tear slides down her cheek as she stands and begins to pace the small space of the house. She stops and tends to the fire, watching it intently, allowing her tears to fall. It is best to get them out now for there will be no more once a decision is made.

The flames jump and dance, and she can see herself reflected inside them. Her chest burns and her stomach is cramping—the ache is physical, and there is no sign that it will end anytime soon.

_What should I do?_

The door creaks open, but she doesn’t turn around. Instead, she prepares herself, already knowing who it is before he says anything.

“My wife.”

Those words. It is how he refers to her when he knows she is angry. It is both pleading, and inviting. She still doesn’t turn around as he makes his way to stand beside her by the fire.

“I would much rather it had been you,” Ragnar’s voice is low, his eyes straight ahead. She is conscious of the space between them, and he is too. “I swear to you, I never meant for this to happen.”

Ragnar has never lied to her. Even when the truth has hurt. But now she doubts his words. The tears have dried and when she responds her voice is low but steady as she faces him.

“But it _has_ happened. And I think…” she bites her lip. The look on his face is a combination of things—fear, hope, ache…

“I think I should leave.”

There.

She has said the words.

“Don’t…” he whispers.

“What else is there to do Ragnar? Of what _use_ am I to you anymore? I will stay in this house...for now.”

He looks crestfallen, but slowly turns to walk away.

“I will have Athelstan and Siggy bring your things,” he says. “Will I see you…in the evening?”

“Perhaps…maybe…I do not know. I need…time.”

Time.

He has all of it, and none of it at the same time. But there is still hope. She hasn’t actually left him…yet.

They are estranged, but they are not divorced.


	3. Chapter 3

**It has been three months, and the days are growing longer, and hotter. They have reached an agreement of sorts. She will come to his side to help run the day-to-day business of the town. They will sit together, and dine together in the evenings, but at night she goes home and leaves him to his bed, alone.**

The day Aslaug arrives is a day that he has been dreading.

But he cannot deny that she is still as striking as when he first saw her in Gotaland. And her stomach is just as round as it was when she arrived in Kattegat for the first time.

Ragnar watches as Aslaug enters his home, a soft smile on her lips. His eyes go from her, to Lagertha to his son. Bjorn draws closer to his mother and they are standing slightly apart from him.  He reaches for them but they pull away.  Bjorn’s face is full of resentment—he is still too young to hide what he feels. Lagertha is maintaining a brave face, and he is glad for it because he knows that whatever he does or says in the next few days will determine whether she will stay with him. And he needs for her to stay.

They welcome the Princess inside the great hall, and she has come with several attendants in tow. The hall is once again filled with people, and Lagertha takes charge, guiding them all where they need to go. He slips back into a corner to stand and watch. The two women greet each other awkwardly, and he knows that what he’s done to his wife is a burden on her.

There is food to be cooked, sleeping arrangements to be made, but she handles it with skill. Did she do this the first time and he not notice? She must have, because now, he recalls, he has no idea where everyone went after dinner. Athelstan is watching him from the other side of the room and the two men meet eyes. He nods ever so slightly and walks outside, Athelstan following behind him.

It is better to be out here, instead of in the great hall. He has to clear his mind, to think.

“So, what will you do?” Athelstan asks as they walk. Ragnar knows that the Christian believes that what he has done is a sin. A sin according to the Christian God, at least. And he already knows the priest does not approve.

“I will try to convince her to stay.”

They walk around the great hall, past the sheep and goat stalls and into the market. It is crowded, busy with the sounds of trading and bartering. An argument breaks out and they stop, but it resolves itself.

“You are like King Solomon trying to court Sheba,” Athelstan muses aloud.

“I don’t think you’ve told me that story yet, priest,” Ragnar smiles and looks at his friend out of the corner of his eye. This is something he has missed, Athelstan’s stories of the Christian God, and of the people that inspired that faith. He knows full well the story. But he wants to hear it again. Perhaps the Christ-God can provide some favor…Ragnar is willing to accept help from wherever it comes.

Athelstan begins to speak of the great king…a man with many wives, and many children. But his heart lay with the one woman he could not have. A beautiful queen, a ruler of a kingdom equal to his. The priest says Solomon could not win Sheba with his wealth, nor with his power—she was unimpressed by both…the only way he could win her was by giving her his heart.

“Solomon wrote one of the most passionate books in Christiandom,” Athelstan says. “It is unfortunate my people have forgotten or refuse to read the lessons contained within it.”

It is late at night when he comes up with a solution he thinks, could work. During dinner he makes sure to keep his mouth shut—refusing to raise the issue of two wives. And he does not invite Aslaug into their bed as he did the first time around. It makes him cringe to remember that—how he had felt it was justified, not realizing he had completely debased his wife. Perhaps that was the moment she decided to leave? He had paraded Aslaug around while Lagertha stood by silently watching. He had kept his mistress between them, putting another woman in their bed.

They have shared their love with others before—but it has always been discussed, and mutually agreed. Aslaug was not. And perhaps it is why he did not tell her the truth the first time. Maybe, if he had been honest in his desires for more children, she would have understood, and she would have allowed him to seek another companion freely. But he had schemed, and he had snuck—and he had betrayed her trust. And this is what it has always come down to. It has never been about who he sleeps with. It has always been about whether she can trust him.

Ragnar swallows the bitter taste of remorse down as he rolls over to face…no one.

Again he is alone.

 He throws off the furs and puts his boots on, preparing to make the trek up the mountain.

 By the time he gets there his boots are caked in mud and it has started to rain, soaking him. He stands outside in the cold a moment to gather his thoughts before knocking.

It opens for him and he steps inside. It’s dark, save for the lingering glow of ash in the fireplace.

“What do you want tonight, Ragnar?” The way she says his name makes him nervous. He has never heard her so…resigned.

“I want to talk to you, about Aslaug.”

She sighs.

“Of course you do. Sit down.”

He obeys and she takes a seat next to him. She looks tired, worn and he doesn’t like it. What he wants to do is hold her and love her, but there is a definite sense of isolation rolling off Lagertha and he gets it. That’s not going to happen.

“I know you are considering leaving me,” he begins. “And you already know that I want you to stay. But I also understand the position that I have put you in…”

She stays silent as he continues.

“I do not love her. But I do love this child. And I love Bjorn. And I love you. If you choose to leave, please don’t leave Kattegat. Stay. You do not have to live in our home but the town needs you. Bjorn needs, you and…so do I.”

He has spent the past four months trying to figure it out. He knows exactly what will happen should she leave, and he cannot allow her to go through that abuse again. He will kill earl Sigvard before he even lays one hand on her.

“And if I choose to stay…what of your mistress? Will you marry Aslaug? Will you have two wives?”

There it is. Her fear, finally voiced. He sees two choices in front of him. The last time, his decision led to her departure. This time, he makes a different selection.

“No.” He says. “I will not marry her. But I must take care of her, and I must take care of the children I created.”

Lagertha studies him. Ragnar is kneeling beside her chair, waiting on her answer.  She is so tired and the hour is late. It has been a draining day, and all she wants to do is sleep. The fire has dimmed,  and it will take a while to rebuild it.

There’s an answer on her heart, but it’s failing to come out of her mouth. Instead, she shivers.

He moves from her chair and goes outside, letting in a blast of cool air. When he comes back with firewood, she moves aside to allow him to tend what’s left in the hearth. Soon, the flames begin to grow again.

Lagertha’s very nature is resistant to what he is asking of her. Even if he does not marry his mistress, Aslaug will still live in their home. And sleep in their bed. And have sex with _her_ husband.

“I don’t want to share.” The words are out before she realizes they have been spoken aloud.

“Then you don’t have to. I need only more sons, my wife. Only the children. That is all there is, and I swear, that is all there ever will be between her and I.”

Lagertha looks at him wondering if he believes his own words. She is not dumb. He is asking her permission to bed and impregnate Aslaug. He is asking her to share. And it is this thought that sickens her.

“You’ve humiliated me.” She shakes her head, grief-stricken and heart-sick.

“It was not my intention.”

‘You insult me.”

He has heard these words before. Oh gods…please no…

“I do not know if I can forgive you. You are asking more than I am willing to give. And I cannot commit to staying here.”

“Lagertha, think of Bjorn.” Bjorn—he knows the way to her heart is through their son. If he can reach her there…he knows there is a chance. And so he appeals. He tells her that Bjorn needs both of his parents. He tells her that he believes they can get through this, that he is willing to do anything…anything…

“But I can't cast Aslaug out. What kind of man would I be if I did? What kind of father to a child would I be?"

What kind of man, indeed.

She looks at him, still torn.

 “I don’t want to know. Promise me Ragnar, _swear_ to me, that I will _never_ know,” she whispers.

He kisses her softly, and leans his forehead against hers.

“I promise, you will not know.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**To his right sits Lagertha and to the left, Aslaug. Bjorn is next to his mother and the baby, Ubbe, in Aslaug’s arms. They are holding court.**

The first year with Aslaug has been…difficult. Lagertha largely keeps to her mountain home. On days she is needed she comes down to hold court dutifully and in the evenings she returns to her house. If the hour is late, Ragnar will escort her. The few times he has tried to touch on other subjects outside of business she has rebuffed him. And he has never been allowed to stay the night-- she always sends him away. He knows not to touch her. She refuses his advances, rejects his affections.

Lagertha acknowledges Aslaug only when she must. And one day, she asks the princess a question.

“Why did you choose my husband? Why did you come here?”

“Because I had no choice,” Aslaug tells her. “It was fate.” She speaks with sincerity and Lagertha knows Aslaug believes that to be true. She however, is not sure that is the case.

Bjorn has managed to adapt, however. Children are resilient in this way. And he spends more time with Ragnar now as it should be. A son needs his father, and she cannot imagine tearing them apart. Still the sight of Ragnar is repulsive.  At night there are dreams filled with death, and shadows creep across the walls.  The hurt does not abate. Instead it festers settling like stone. There is much that she has given up to become a wife, and a mother. And there are questions over whether it was worth the sacrifice.

He has taken refuge inside of Aslaug to meet his urges. And because she is the mother of his children he has treated her with respect and kindness. As much of it, as he can bring himself to give. But Ragnar burns for his wife and Lagertha will not have him. She is just as stubborn as she was when he first married her—an attribute he has come to admire and respect. But he misses her, and wishes she would speak to him, confide in him and trust in him again. He asked for her to stay and she has, but he’d never imagined it would be like this.

Lagertha did not attend the birth of Ubbe.

He had sent Siggy and Athelstan to deliver the news in the hopes that seeing them would help her. But they had returned by themselves delivering to him his wife’s message.

 “She is pleased you have received what you wanted,” Siggy had said.  Athelstan just looked at him, shaking his head.

They are now coming up on the second year since their lives were disrupted. And on the anniversary of Aslaug’s arrival, the princess delivers to him news.

“I am pregnant.” The words bring the knowledge that he will see his son Hvitserk again.  But underneath the joy of reunion is remorse.

“Will you tell her, father?” Bjorn asks, looking at him. It is mid-afternoon and Athelstan, Ragnar and Bjorn are fishing in the ocean. Their small boat rocks gently in the breeze.

“ _When_ will you tell her,” Athelstan corrects.

When. Not if.

“Mother will not be pleased.”

No. She will not. They have grown apart in this year. He has not been left alone, and yet, Ragnar is lonely. His son and his slave have been of comfort, but there is still a hole in his heart. He has a wife yet no marriage. And he has a mistress but no love. At least, not the kind of love that carries a man to war, and allows him to die in peace.

“I will speak with Lagertha this evening.”

Evening arrives sooner than he would have liked, leaving little time for strategy. It is dusk when he arrives on her doorstep. He knocks.

There is rustling and then movement. Slowly the door opens for him. The house smells of bread and mead—she has been cooking. It makes his mouth water, remembering the last time she had cooked for him. The meal had been roasted pheasant and potatoes, mixed into a robust stew.  Lagertha had traded her shield and sword for a trawl and a pot. She took care of their family…feeding them, keeping them clothed. All through the use of her hands…the hands that stitched torn garments and baked and cooked and cleaned in love.

Now she still does all of these things, but for herself only.

“Enter.”

She moves away from him and he sits, watching her tend her breads in the hearth. Lagertha is bent over, facing away from him, and he has a clear glorious view of her ass. It is a magnificent sight. And he steals the moment to admire it—undressing her with his eyes. How long has it been since he had her? Since he saw her unclothed? He knows when. Before he left for Gotaland nearly two years ago.

“You have come here. Why?”  She lifts herself up and wipes her hands on her apron before pouring a cup of mead. She does not offer him anything as she takes a seat and crosses her legs, waiting.

“I have come with…news.”

The fire has made her face flushed, her hair is in small braids, her lips are pink.

Ragnar remembers praying to Odin for her. He fought his own brother for this woman. He had been made to prove himself worthy to even be with her. His were the hands that built their home on the beach. A home made for Lagertha.  She was a known warrior on the battlefield when they met. She was already famous while he was still an unknown farmer’s son. She gave up a life of glory for him. And now, as she waits for him to speak, he knows what he will say will hurt her all over again.

 “Aslaug is with child.”

The first time he spoke these words she had been angry, fighting him, lashing at him. It was painful then, but it meant she cared. Now, Lagertha’s response is nod of acknowledgement. Her face is unreadable. A mask, one he notices she wears almost daily. Ragnar has underestimated the depth of his wife’s anger and her grief. Only now is it beginning to dawn on him that he no longer knows what she is thinking or feeling. He wishes she would beat him—at least then he would know she still cares. That she does nothing at all makes him fearful. All he truly understands is that she is still very, very mad. And that anger is not abating.

“Is that all?”

He nods.

“Very well.” She rises to show him the door. But he stops, reaching out to pull her in close, smelling her hair. She tenses.

“I miss you,” he tells her. But she detaches herself from his arms.

“Leave.”

 He goes.

When she arrives to the hall two days later, she greets Aslaug formally. They hear grievances, and it is Lagertha who administers justice accordingly. Ragnar may be the earl, but it is Lagertha who runs this town.

Aslaug sits quietly, watching the interaction between her lover and his wife. There is distance and coldness between them, and it chills her. She had not meant for this to happen and Ragnar’s unhappiness weighs on her. Even though he tries to hide it she knows he is dissatisfied. She has tried to sex it away doing all the things she knows he enjoys. And she has also tried to love it away—but even in their most intimate moments there is a part of him she has not been able to reach. He does not confide in her, and he brushes off her questions with small gestures of affection. They are not married and yet he treats her as a wife and not a mistress and does not disrespect their bed. He is a good and doting father to Ubbe and Bjorn and she knows he will love their new son as well. But when she looks at Ragnar some nights, and even when he is inside her, she can tell his heart and his mind are elsewhere. And she knows that while he may care greatly for her, it is her love he can’t return.

When Lagertha leaves for the day and they are left alone Aslaug speaks.

“She has not forgiven you.”

Ragnar shakes his head. “No. She has not.”

“Perhaps you need to do something different. I will be fine if you decide to travel.”

He looks at Aslaug, seeing her, almost as if for the first time. She has given him an out.

 It is the one thing that has always been guaranteed to bring Lagertha joy. The promise of adventure. For the sake of them both, he must break her out of the place that she is in.

Ragnar makes the trek up the mountain. He again knocks on her door and opens it.

“I wish to speak with you,” he says, not waiting to be invited in.

“Do you come with more news?” There is sarcasm in her voice as she says it.  He shakes his head. “I wish to go to England again. I am thinking of inviting King Horik and Jarl Borg—I wish to honor the agreement we made in Gotaland,” he tells her.

For the first time Lagertha feels something other than numbness and anger. There is…a flicker. She nods in agreement. “It has been too long.”

“I wish for you to come with me.”

Her smile warms him. It is unexpected.

“How soon do you think we can leave?”

“Three months, perhaps. We will need send word. And they will need to make arrangements accordingly.”

 It has been years since the last time they sailed west, and he has grown just as restless as she has. Domesticity does not suit them. When he leaves her house Lagertha picks up her sword and twirls it in her hand, the tip of the blade etching into a finger.

“Three months,” she murmurs. In that much time she will be free of Kattegat, and she won’t have to look at the faces that serve as reminders of her husband’s adultery.

Perhaps in England she will get to fight—to relieve the burning hate in her heart.

.

.

In the end, Jarl Borg does not go with them. And Ragnar knows the earl will seek his revenge. He will cross that bridge when he comes to it. Nothing will take away his joy right now.

The ocean breeze is like a soothing balm on Lagertha’s skin, tickling and teasing. The knot in her stomach slowly begins to untie the closer they get to the shore, and finally, when they see land, it has faded from dread to deliverance. Her sword and axe are ready. Her armor, fresh and new. Her hands tremble with the desire to run and revel in glory. She sees the men on shore standing guard, waiting. One hand grips the sword, the other the axe. She waits for the horns to sound. The boats draw closer to the shore. Closer.

She can see faces now, these Englishmen. She can see the fear in their eyes, even as they stand guard.

The boats hit the sandbar.

The horn blows.

And she is finally, finally free.

 Lagertha charges first, her husband and the rest of their warriors right behind them. But it is no contest.

 Her sword slices through soft bellies and throats like butter, the blood warm against her face. Her movements are quick and deadly, the dance of death her specialty as she takes turns—the sword, the axe. The shield. Each with its own rhythm, its own sense of poetry. She is fire, she is flame. She is death.

She is free.

 This is where she shines. On the battlefield. With each person she strikes down she pictures Aslaug’s head. And Ragnar’s too.

Out of the corner of her eye she spots a man running, and without hesitation she throws her axe—watching it whizz through the air and implant itself in the back of a soldier.

He falls down dead.

It is the release she has been craving, dying for. A soldier charges her and she screams—a cry so primal it makes him stop---it is the cry of a demon, he believes. Of death.

This is release.  It feels so good to just rage. And rage, and rage… Lagertha kills without mercy or discrimination. And she continues to fight, and strike and murder until there are nothing but bodies lying at her feet. Her ears ring with the sound of battle-the clash of steel on steel, shield to sword, axe to body…the cries and moans of dead and dying men begin sound like the horns of Valhalla…they blend with her own yells as she tears through them…

And then, there is silence.

When she comes back to herself, she takes a look around. There are more bodies scattered about the beach. The eyes of their men are on her, and they are all filled with fear.  She sees Ragnar, his face stained red and she knows she must look exactly the same. There is blood everywhere. It drips from the blade of her axe and her sword. Her shield, her hands.

He does not know how long he has watched her, but seeing Lagertha unleash her anger against the Saxon’s is…terrifying. She has not allowed for any sort of retreat. And the number of bodies at her feet grow. The battle is long since over, but as he starts toward her, Torstein grabs his arm.

 “I would not to that, if I were you. She will _kill_ you in this moment. That Valkyrie is angry.”

Ragnar gazes across the beach at his wife with an expression somewhere between lust and longing as he watches her come down from her blood fever.  This is the woman of his dreams. She appears as she was when he first saw her all those years ago—a revelation born out of war.

Lagertha is breathing heavily—this release has felt so, so good, years of pent up hurt and anger and frustration finally out.  It is something she has needed for a very long time. To just be wild and free, to be _Viking_.

It has been so long she hadn’t realized she’d nearly gone numb. She had stopped caring. Yet, now that she can feel – she feels everything. But one thing in particular rises to the forefront. And another kind of release is needed.

Their forces make camp in the forests near a small stream. In the past, she and Ragnar have always slept together on raids like this, but this time, they are apart. It gives her some privacy as the only woman in the group.

Slowly she removes her armor, allowing the heavy leather and chainmail to fall to the ground. She looks around the camp, but most of the men are asleep, and those who aren’t have retreated to their tents. The water is babbling in the spring nearby and it is there that she goes, removing the rest of her clothing and setting her things on a rock nearby. The water is cold when she sticks a toe in, but she covers her breasts and braces herself—moving in further, deeper and deeper, until she is nearly submerged. The blood from her body runs out into the water, slowly fading until it is clear. It is quiet, the only sounds the insects and creatures of the night. For the first time, there is a semblance of peace.  She takes the time to bathe herself and wash her hair reliving the thrill of the battle.

She has always loved to fight. And she has always loved what comes afterward... her body is still tingling with the afterglow of battle. It is a high in and of itself. It’s almost as good as sex.

 _Almost_.

It’s been such a long time since she felt this _alive…and it’s a beautiful night,_ she muses as she looks up at the sky, blanketed with the thousands and thousands of stars.

A slow smile creeps across her face as she closes her eyes, and lets one hand follow the same path as the water on her body, from her breasts to her stomach to between her legs, sliding on finger inside.

_Why not?_

It’s been more than two years. Two years of empty beds and lonely nights. Of anger so hot it scorches any other emotion. She has wrapped herself in that anger, comforted herself in it. It has allowed her to survive. But now…now it’s taken a backseat having finally burned itself down to a low simmer. And other needs and desires rise quickly.

It’s like a damn has burst as she pleasures herself, the sensation causing her to tremble. A soft moan escapes her lips, but it’s been so long since she’s been touched, since she’s allowed herself to touch or even just to _feel_ …

Lagertha is so caught up in what she’s doing, she doesn’t realize she isn’t alone until there’s a warm, hard body against her back, and familiar hands replace her own. But by then, she can’t stop.

Ragnar has been watching the entire time, following her silently but hanging back to just watch and admire her.  He hadn’t intended to make his presence known, but as her clothes come off, and he gets his first view of her body in two years, he starts to shed his own. And when he watches her slip her hand between her legs, and he hears the moan, he feels himself grow hard, and he decides to leave everything on the table--this cannot be allowed to pass by. So he makes his way toward her in the water and comes up behind her, replacing her hands with his own, sliding a finger between her legs and inside her. She trembles against his chest as he touches, probes. When his mouth finds the back of her neck, he feels her shudder, and he feels the urge to bite…just a little.

Another finger in and this time and her moans become pants. He grinds against her and her legs part for him allowing him entry.  

The sensation catches them both off guard, and they moan together in unison as he begins to thrust gently, savoring the way she feels.

It has been too long.

They move together, in the water…a husband and a wife.  Lagertha is hungry. Demanding.

And he is willing. The waters around them roil, and he touches the places she can’t reach with her hands. He feels his end coming, and he bites down hard on her neck to strangle his cry. The pain from the bite becomes a flare that strikes down her body and causes her to throw her head back in a silent scream…

It takes a long while to recover.

He moves to face her, but when he leans in for a kiss, her hand comes up to stop him.

 “No.”

She watches as his face falls and she walks around him and out of the water, putting her clothes back on.

It’s too soon.

Her husband has served his purpose in the moment. But Ragnar forfeited her body when Aslaug walked through the door, and he doesn’t get to reclaim it so easily. It will take more than lust for that to happen again. Lust she can deal with on her own. But what he’s asking of her requires love, and she’s not sure it’s still there.  


	5. Chapter 5

.

**-xxx-**

**Their arrival back in Kattegat is met with fanfare. The whole city has come to greet them. Bjorn rushes into the arms of his mother. Siggy and Athelstan embrace them both. Aslaug comes, holding a new child for Ragnar. He takes his newborn son into his arms and touches him gently. Lagertha watches them for a moment and retreats to her home in the mountains.**

**It is routine, again.**

“I was hoping that we could…reconcile,” Ragnar says when they are alone. She is in her garden, harvesting her small crop. While they were in England, the wheat had grown, and the vegetables too.

“Reconciliation demands trust. A foundation,” she tells him. They have been home a month. The time has been mostly spent handling the affairs of their town, and preparing the winter stores. It is the first time he has had an opportunity to speak to her privately.

“Do we not have that? After what happened in England…”

“What happened in England…will stay in England,” she tells him sharply.

“But I have thought about it every day since. Have you?” She looks at him, those piercing eyes scouring hers for any sort of affirmation. He gets none.

“I have work to do. We must prepare for the winter. Are we planning to go back in the Spring?”

He nods.

“I would like to, yes.”

“Then we must get the sheep shorn, and the goats in order as well,” she says.

The abrupt change in conversation makes him angry. And this time he cannot help himself. He lashes out at her.

“How long will you make me suffer? I was honest! I did not lie! And hasn’t it always been this way between us? We do not lie to each other!”

It is true. It is their only rule. A promise they made in the beginning, that no matter what, they will not lie. And he has been truthful. He has confessed everything. And yet Lagertha continues to punish him.

She is quiet, letting him stew in his anger. He yells, and vents and rails at her, cursing her stubbornness and her pride. He demands she come home. He tells her it is her duty as a wife. He tells her how much she has hurt him, how much he has suffered without her. He tells her he believes she is doing this on purpose—does she not see his regret? Can she not see his pain?

Lagertha waits calmly for him to finish. Eventually, he does.

“What am I to you, wife?” She can hear the fatigue in his voice. And her answer is truthful when she gives it.

“I do not know.”

He leaves her home, and she pours herself a cup of mead and settles down by the fire, Ragnar’s fit of anger rolling off her back like water from an otter.

Fall fades to winter, and soon it becomes bitterly cold. It is too cold for much of anything. Most of the days are spent alone at her home. Until the day Siggy shows up for a visit.

“How are things in Kattegat?” Lagertha asks as she pours her friend some tea.

“The days pass slowly,” Siggy tells her. “But there are some happenings. Rollo and Ragnar have finally made peace.”

It brings a small smile to Lagertha’s face. “I am glad for that. Ragnar loves his family. And I know for both brothers that being estranged has hurt them.”

Siggy nods. “It has been terrible for Rollo. Ragnar told him that he could not come on the Spring raid, however, just being in the same room…and being allowed back in…it is enough. So much has changed these last few years.”

Seeming to realize what she said, Siggy freezes a moment. Lagertha notices her discomfort.

“They have, indeed. None of us are the same people we were before…”

Before what? Before Ragnar became Earl. Before Aslaug entered their lives. Before Rollo’s betrayal. Indeed, nothing is the same.

“To be honest, Siggy…I wish we could go back to our farm. And I wish we had never sailed west. I wish our daughters were still here.” They sit quietly, united in their shared grief.

“Why have you come today?” She watches Siggy’s face as her friend struggles to find words. And she knows immediately the reason for the visit.

“So, Ragnar is to have another son.”

Siggy nods. Lagertha counts them…two in two years. A third on the way. Her laugh is dark and rueful and there is something in it that chills Siggy to the bone.

 “Lagertha, please come down from the mountain. It would be much warmer for you to sleep in the great hall.”

 “No. I will not share a bed with my husband and his mistress.” She is firm on this point. Resolute.

“Such arrangements are made all over the country. Even my beloved husband had his mistresses.”

“And yet he did not impregnate them. Or if he did, he did not tell you about it. Our situation is…different.”

“So _that_ is why you will not come,” Siggy says, studying Lagertha closely. She has wondered for all this time about Lagertha’s stubbornness. Now she knows. It is not about Aslaug. Nor is it about Ragnar’s infidelities. It is about something else. Something deeper.

“Have you been to the seer?” She asks, gently. “Perhaps he can address your fears.”

Lagertha shakes her head.

“Some things are best left unknown.”

“But how will you know if you do not _try_? Ragnar is still your husband, and you are still his wife…by continuing to deny him, you deny yourself.”

“We did try, Siggy. We tried for ten years. And I failed. And I do not want to try again. Let Aslaug do it. She is better suited to the task than I am. And from where I sit, she is doing a very good job.”


	6. Chapter 6

**-xxx-**

**She is his top commander, his chief strategist. She is his wife, the mother of his child, and what he feels for her is deeper, and more powerful than love. It is because of this that he continues to wait for Lagertha’s forgiveness.**

Aslaug’s latest pregnancy has only added to their estrangement. He remembers his prayers to the gods, to allow him to keep his wife. He remembers his vows to not give her up. Nearly three years into this…arrangement…he wonders if it was a mistake to beg Lagertha to stay. In his last life, they were miserable without each other. In this one, they are miserable together.

Will there ever be peace between them again?

He cannot wait to go west again. It is calling him. Calling them. The months have passed too slowly. Lagertha has only grown more distant and cold. The only people she smiles for are Bjorn, Siggy and Athelstan.

Yet she is present for the first feast of Spring. There is laughter and music and dancing this night in the great hall. And she smiles when Ragnar announces they will depart in three weeks. She is pleased, because her people are happy. And what she does, and continues to do, is for the betterment of them all. The raids have made them wealthier than they could have dreamed. And the prosperity has lessened the squabbles among them all. Ragnar casts a glance at his wife, seated beside him in her chair. She is dressed in red, her hair in braids fashioned in a way that they appear as a golden crown. He knows she will wear one, one day.

She catches him looking and her smile fades as she moves to leave the hall. But he follows. They walk to the stables and she calls for her horse. He calls for his. He does not ask permission to accompany her, he just goes. And when they arrive at her home he follows her through the door. They have not spoken a word to each other all day.

Lagertha continues to ignore his presence. Instead, she prepares herself for bed. She removes her gown allowing it to fall, and unwraps the cloth from her breasts, freeing herself, and pulling on a nightgown.  He watches as she perches on the edge of the bed and begins to take down her hair.

“May I?”

She looks at him and nods. He sits beside her to begin the work of undoing the intricate strings and patterns. The loose curls wrap around his hands and he notes the softness, the silkiness.  This is a rare moment of physical touch, and he is careful to only feel her hair. When he is done, Lagertha moves to lie under the covers. She turns away from him.

He does not know what to do. There is neither invitation nor rejection.  Despite everything, she is still his wife and he is standing in her house.

Ragnar makes a decision. He removes his boots, and comes to lay beside her. He does not get under the blankets. And Lagertha does not turn around. He has not been this close since they were in England. But she is not kicking him out. And that, perhaps, is a sign that the ice between them is starting to thaw as well.

.

.

“What is it like to finally be a free man?”

Ragnar and Athelstan are sparring outside. In the five years he has been here, the monk has become more of a counselor, than a slave. Ragnar ducks as Athelstan swings for his head, and he jumps back from a jab, barely missing a cut across the chest. They circle each other, and Ragnar turns quickly and kicks Athelstan in the back, sending him to the ground. He slams his sword down into the earth by the side of Athelstan’s head, before reaching down to help him up.

“Not bad. But remember to always watch your back,” he says.

Athelstan dusts himself off.  “It is…very similar really. I did not realize as your slave that I was pretty much already a free man. You treated me well.”

“Do you miss England?”

“Yes,” the priest says. “A part of me does. I noticed you did not sleep in the hall last night.”

“I slept with Lagertha.”

“I see.”

Ragnar feels judgment coming. “She did not allow me to touch her but…she allowed me to share her bed,” he finishes.

Athelstan nods. “Then you must continue to be Solomon,” he says. “The queen of Sheba did not come gently. And what of Aslaug?”

 “She was…displeased. She has not spoken to me all day.”

Aslaug had looked at him with accusation in her eyes upon his return that morning, asking where he had been. He told her the truth, and she had snapped at him.

“You have no right to speak,” he shot back. “It was _you_ who forced yourself on me.” That had ended the argument. They had glared at each other before Aslaug stormed away.

Athelstan studies his former master a moment before gathering his shield and sword.

“I do not envy you, my friend. The waters you must travel are deep. Just remember what Solomon said. ‘Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned’.”

It makes him laugh. It is the same speech Athelstan delivered before, during his previous life.

.

.

The return to Saxon shores is welcome. And this time, there are no forces to greet them on the beach as they come ashore. Ragnar and Lagertha guide their warriors and begin to make camp in a clearing. Trees are felled to fortify their defenses. Tents are raised and fires spark to life. Salted fish in baskets is brought out and some of the warriors begin to hunt.

 In short order, there is a small village of 200 men and women, waiting on commands from their earls.

King Ecbert is intrigued by these Northmen. He has heard from King Aelle how they invaded Northumbria, and sacked both a monastery and a town. Aelle has spoken of their leader, Ragnar Lothbrok, and Ecbert wants to know what manner of man can strike fear into the heart of a king. And so he issues an invitation.

He is already in his bath when Ragnar arrives and he is not alone. There is a woman with him, a striking woman wearing armor and carrying a sword. He is curious as to who she is.

“Will you not join me, Ragnar Lothbrok?” He says, beckoning to the bath. “The water is very temperate.”

He watches as they look at each other, and then at him. Slowly Ragnar begins to remove his clothes, revealing the bruises and scars across his body. Yet, to Ecbert’s delight, Ragnar’s companion does the same, revealing creamy, smooth skin. His stare is shameless as he admires the long legs, the toned arms, and her breasts…Ecbert has never seen such breasts, they are the breasts of youth, high and proud, on a woman who looks as if she was carved from heavens themselves. The daughter of a goddess of antiquity, he thinks.

Ragnar catches the king’s stare and turns to his wife. Lagertha looks to him, and when he moves his hand to her face, and then to her hair, she allows him to loosen the braids, the locks falling down to her breasts covering them.

They climb into the water, and Ragnar speaks.

“King Ecbert, my wife, Lagertha.”

His wife.  Ecbert smiles a wide smile.

“I should have known a man such as Ragnar Lothbrok would have a wife equal to his measure,” he says, turning on the charm.

“I think what you meant to say is that a woman such as myself would have a man equal to _mine_.”  Lagertha does not return his smile. She is not impressed.

The king is near speechless. The Northmen are so very different. Even their women, no— _this_ woman. This woman who speaks so freely in the presence of men. She is completely unashamed of her nakedness. Ragnar Lothbrok’s wife is a woman who obviously fights and is held in high esteem by her husband. She is clearly his equal.  Ecbert wonders which of the two he should address. Which of them make the decisions?

It is not lost on him that both Ragnar and Lagertha understand his words. “You speak our language?”

“We do,” Ragnar says.

“Then let us talk.”

.

.

“Do you think we can we trust him?” Lagertha asks once they are back at camp. This trip has been different. She is laying by her husband, his fingers in her hair. Night has come, and a fire keeps them warm.

“No,” Ragnar says. “We cannot.” He has learned from his mistakes of the past. And he is determined for this time to be different. “And yet, he has made us an offer…”

“An offer I am intrigued by. But if we cannot accept it…” They contemplate.

“It is our dream,” he tells her. “We must at least, try.”

Their dream. The very last of their shared things.

“Our dream…” Lagertha repeats, remembering the days and the nights spent wishing and planning and talking…they had been so young. So different. It feels so far away.

“I still dream of you,” Ragnar’s voice is like a low rumble. They are clothed under the blankets. He pulls her against him and she feels him harden against her thigh.

She tenses and he feels it.

It has been a year since she allowed him inside her body. And it is the one thing she misses. At least—the one thing she is willing to admit to herself that she misses. Once upon a time, they made love daily. Now, however….

“No.”

He is quiet.

“But I will allow you to hold me.”

He takes it. It is not sex that he has craved, but the intimacy of being with his wife.   

In the morning a messenger arrives with news. It is not good.

Jarl Borg has invaded Kattegat. Rollo has taken Aslaug and the children and fled. Their lands and their homes are occupied. They must leave immediately.

Ragnar is silent for the majority of the voyage. When this happened last time, it had been Lagertha who had saved them. But she is with him now, and he does not know how to fix this.

By the time they arrive, Jarl Borg’s forces are dug in. Their ships have been storm tossed, two have sunk—40 warriors, gone. Ragnar and Lagertha have spent the trip awake and silent. He doesn’t have to look at her to know her face mirrors his own. There will be death. And it will be slow, and painful.

It is dark when they pull up to the shore, to the place where his family is hiding. They run up the hillside and to the farm, where Rollo greets them.

The brothers embrace as they walk through the door.

“Mother!” Bjorn runs into Lagertha’s arms, and she holds him close with relief as Ragnar goes to check on Aslaug.

The princess has been crying, and they can all tell she is afraid. Ragnar, Lagertha and Rollo look at each other, communicating in the silent language only they know and share.

“We need men,” Ragnar says once they are situated.

“I have secured agreements from 20 families, 30 warriors to fight with us.” Rollo replies.

“That’s not enough. We need at least 100 more.”

 They sit in silence weighing their options. Across the room Aslaug tries to quiet a wailing infant. Sigurd. Ragnar’s newest son has arrived in their absence.  The noise draws Lagertha’s attention.

For more than three years she has tolerated Aslaug by largely ignoring her. Now, however, the princess’s dress is torn and her face dirty. She looks harried and on the verge of tears and Lagertha feels sorry for her. She is certain this is not what Aslaug signed up for. And as a mother, she can recognize the strain in Aslaug’s face. It is empathy that enables her to get up and walk over to the other woman, holding out her arms.

“May I?”

Wordlessly, Aslaug hands her the child and she begins to pace about the farmhouse, whispering to him. Slowly Sigurd begin to calm.

“Thank you, Lagertha,” Aslaug whispers, her face a reflection of gratefulness.

“You’re welcome.”

Ragnar watches his wife with his son in her arms. It is the first time she has touched one of children outside of Bjorn. She hadn’t been able to even look at Ubbe when he arrived, nor Hvitserk either. Even in this dark time, it makes him smile, just a little, to see her with a child in her arms.

She hands a now-sleeping Sigurd to Aslaug, and comes back over to the table where the men are.

“I have thought.”

They look at her expectantly.

“We need men. And we need allies. The next neighboring city that may be able to provide both is Hedeby. Bjorn and I will go and seek an alliance with their Earl.”

Hedeby.

“NO!” Ragnar jumps up and pounds his fist on the table. It comes out forceful, the yell making them all jump.

“What do you mean, no?” Rollo asks. “Lagertha is right. Hedeby is an important sea port, and it is our neighbor. It makes sense that we seek them out before Jarl Borg gets there.”

Ragnar is up now, pacing.

“Then I will go. And you all will stay here.”

He is not thinking rationally. Siggy, silent for all this time weighs in. “And who will stay to defend us? We need the men.”

“Ragnar, you need to stay here. With Aslaug, and your children. They need your protection. Bjorn and I do not. I will take my son, and we will leave at first light.”

Bjorn looks at his mother. At 15, he is now taller than her, and closer to his father’s height. He is beginning to broaden. Not quite a boy, but not yet a man.

Holding her ground Lagertha stares at her husband until finally, he relents. They will not argue about this. There are more pressing concerns. Ragnar turns to his son. “Guard your mother,” he says gripping Bjorn’s shoulder tightly. “And make sure she comes back home.”

“Yes father.”

That night, they all sleep where they can. And the next morning he watches as Bjorn and Lagertha leave for Hedeby.

Aslaug comes to stand by his side, resting one of her arms on his.

“You are worried about whether she will come back.”

He yanks his arm away and she steps back, crestfallen.

“She will come back, Ragnar.”

.

.

The journey to Hedeby takes three days, and when they arrive, the city is busy and bustling. Lagertha enters the great hall with Bjorn by her side, and they go to seek an audience with the Earl.

Earl Sigvard, she knows. She has heard of him. Hedeby is incredibly wealthy, boosted by its sea port. It is what Ragnar and Lagertha want Kattegat to become.

When they arrive the hall falls silent as she walks before the Earl. He rises and steps down from his chair to greet them.

“And you are..?”

“Lagertha. And my son, Bjorn. My husband is Ragnar Lothbrok. We have come to seek an alliance with you.”

Sigvard laughs, and the great hall fallows suit.

“And why should we ally ourselves with Ragnar Lothbrok? Doesn’t he have riches and spoils? Why, shouldn’t he turn to his friends out west, perhaps?”

Another round of laughter. She can see Bjorn gritting his teeth, and she places one hand on his to calm him down.

“I believe an alliance would benefit all of us,” she says speaking to the crowd.

 “My husband has opened the west—we have just returned from there. It is a new land, full of wealth. But in addition to wealth is something more valuable--the soil there is rich and fertile. Good for planting crops. We have met the Englishmen, and we can guide you. _If_ you ally with us.”

Sigvard studies her a long moment, and she doesn’t like that his eyes linger for too long on her body. Finally he speaks.

“Come, we will discuss an alliance.” He begins walking and she follows. But he stops her son.

“You--” he says speaking to Bjorn. “Stay outside. Let the adults speak.”

 Bjorn moves to protest, but she stops him with a look and a slight shake of her head. He obeys.

When they’re alone, Sigvard turns to her and attempts to push her against the wall. His breath is hot on her neck.

“So…the wife of the great Ragnar Lothbrok,” he says his hand on her thigh.

“He has good taste.”

 She pushes him off of her and he stumbles backward.

“This is not THAT kind of alliance,” she says as he advances toward her once again.

Sigvard moves to strike her, but she catches his arm and twists it behind his back. He screams in pain as she holds him in her grip.

“Now,” she hisses in his ear.

“You either help me, or I will return to my husband, and tell him how you attempted to rape me. And he will be angry, and he will come for you, _we_ will come for you, and we will _never_ stop coming.”

“Let me go!” Sigvard barks. But she only tightens her grip.

“So, will you ally with us?” She asks.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Good.” She releases him.

“I need 100 men.”

“And what’s to stop me from putting an arrow in your back? And killing your son, too?” Sigvard asks snidely.

Lagertha turns to face him angrily.

“If you kill me, then be prepared to face my husband. I await my men.”

.

.

It is Rollo who spots a large contingent of people coming across the hills.

“Ragnar! We’ve been found!”

He runs out of the house and looks up at the hills, but the familiar flash of golden hair sets his mind at ease. He crosses his arms and smiles. And when his wife and his son arrive, he pulls Bjorn into a hug, and gives his wife a long kiss, leaving her flushed and breathless. He winks at her and grabs her again, pulling her close.

Bjorn makes a face.

“Shut up, boy,” he says, stealing another kiss from Lagertha’s lips before she can protest.  He does not care. They will regain Kattegat.

And when they come from Jarl Borg, they come hard. The fight is as bloody and satisfying just as it was the first time, and just like the first time, Borg runs off. But they did not have to burn their grain stores. So there will be plenty of food for the winter.

His family is safe again. Ragnar is just walking out of the great hall when he sees Lagertha climbing on back of her horse.

“Where are you going?” He asks, curious.

“I’m going home,” she says.

He looks at her, a combination of confusion and disbelief in his face.

“You _are_ home.”

She smiles down at him and points up the mountain, and he cannot believe that after all of this, she is departing yet again. But she is and so the decision is made. He climbs on his horse and goes with her, leaving Aslaug and the children in the great hall.

He does not leave and she does not kick him out. Once the door closes, he takes off his boots and she begins to undress. He watches the clothing fall to the floor, trying to control his rising erection as he asks her how she was able to secure the men from Hedeby.

“Their Earl wanted something he couldn’t have,” she says crossing the room naked and bending over to rummage through a case. His head leans sideways, taking in the smooth roundness of her ass, and thinking about how much he’d love to be in-between her legs right now.  

“He tried to rape me, and I broke his arm.”

Ragnar stands and comes over to her as she slips the nightgown over her head. He tries to take it off, but again she pushes him back. He groans.

“Lagertha, really?” But the look on her face affirms that yes, really.

“Will you allow me to at least stay the night?” He can tell that finally, she is considering it, and it does not escape him that his is the weaker position even though he is her husband. They have not lived together or been together as husband and wife in a very long time.

 “You may stay.”

He turns away to remove his pants, keeping his tunic on, as he climbs in the bed next to her. She allows him under the blankets this time.

At least he’s gotten this far. He’ll just have to accept it until she’s ready, but he really hopes it will be soon. They cannot go on like this forever.


	7. Chapter 7

**In the days and weeks that follow, Aslaug rarely sees Ragnar or Lagertha.  Sometimes Bjorn comes to stay in the great hall, but more often, he too is at the mountain house. She has never been, and it’s understood she is not welcome there. Ragnar used to be in her bed nightly, now most nights she is left alone.**

 

This is not what her visions had shown her. She is with a powerful man, protected as his…mistress…not his wife. She has his sons and she has his home and yet—she is hollow. As if something is missing. Aslaug knows what it is. There is no love. At least, no love for her. There is caring yes, and there is gentleness. But no love. It seems what she had hoped for does not belong to her. 

 When she had seen Ragnar in Gotaland she had believed it was her fate, her destiny to be with him. And that is why she came here. She had been prepared to share him with his wife, but the present arrangement is not what she had anticipated. The closest she is to him is when he is inside her but even then, she cannot read him. He is a blank slate to her. Just as mysterious as he was when they met.

For more than three years Ragnar has been completely hers and she has served him dutifully. Rejected by his wife, Ragnar has had no other alternative than to be by her side, and their children are a testament to that. But something has changed. It began the  night he did not come home. It was the day they argued. The moment their separation started. But it has accelerated after Jarl Borg’s invasion. Ragnar’s days are spent in the great hall…but he is increasingly laying his head elsewhere at night. And she knows where that place is.

Aslaug is jealous. Jealous of how they are together--Lagertha, Ragnar and Bjorn--while she is being left alone to entertain and amuse herself. She has no friends here, no family, and her only anchor to Kattegat is Ragnar.

She must find a way to make this place her home. She is in no position to leave. There must be something more than this. Ragnar and Lagertha have their earldom. They have their raids. They have their son. They have their family and they have place. Perhaps it is time to find her own as well. But where? And how?

She is a princess with title only. Perhaps she should have ignored the gods.

.

.

This year there will be no voyage west. Too much has happened to Kattegat to leave it now. The people are still nervous from Jarl Borg’s invasion, the warriors still weary from the hard journey back home. Restoring calm and order will take time.

Lagertha is using the seasons to train a group of shield-maidens. It has never ceased to amaze Ragnar the power his wife has over the women of their village. Little girls flock to Lagertha as a surrogate mother, and young women come to her for training. But it is not just the women—the young men too. It seems all of Kattegat wants to study at her feet. There is no better teacher, Ragnar thinks as he sits on the porch, watching her train a new generation of fighters.

His wife is deft in her movements, skirting to the left as they lunge for her, turning and striking them across the back. Or, if a ground fight, she rolls her body and twists, kicking out her legs to bring her opponent down and somehow, always ending up on top. He smiles at that—how his wife always ends up on top. This dance has been going on for hours, and he is fascinated by it.

Aslaug appears on the porch and comes to sit as his side.

“I see why you love her,” she says quietly. He does not answer.

“In so many ways, she is like you.”

“What do you mean?”

Aslaug smiles, but it does not reach the rest of her face.

“You are warriors. She is formidable. I would not want to fight her. I doubt there are many who would win. She is strong. Powerful. You both are.”

She looks at him. “I know you at times resent me, Ragnar. I know you believe I took her from you. But you must know by now that there was no other way.”

.

.

 “We must prepare to go back to England,” Ragnar says during dinner.

It is a rare, quiet moment in the great hall. There is no feast tonight, it is just family.

They are all gathered together—Siggy and Rollo, Lagertha, Bjorn, Ragnar, Aslaug, Torstein and Athelstan. The smaller children have been put to bed.

“I agree, but we must find men to fight with us,” Lagertha says.

“King Horik’s men will come,” Rollo speaks up, “but I do not believe that will be enough”.

“Noo…” Ragnar says slowly. “It will not be.”

“Perhaps we can make use of Hedeby again?” Lagertha says. “After all, they are our ally…”

Ragnar looks at his wife, and she looks at him. Everyone else waits until they finish their silent conversation.

Finally, Ragnar nods.

“Let us invite Earl Sigvard and King Horik here,” he says, “and see if they will join us in our journey.”

“And what if they don’t?” It is Aslaug. They all turn to look at her.

“You are only an earl, Ragnar,” she says. “Why would a _king_ follow _you_? And why would Sigvard come as well? And what if they begin to covet this place--” she gestures around them.

“But that is exactly the point.” It is Lagertha.  “It is a matter of trust. And if we are to grow Kattegat, to make a better future for our people, then we must trust as well.”

It is agreed. They will bring King Horik, and Earl Sigvard to their table.

.

The king is loud and boisterous as he gets off his boat and greets them with open arms at the docks.

“Earl Ragnar!” He says draping an arm across Ragnar’s shoulders.

“And Earl Lagertha,” he bows her, and she lowers her head in respect.

“This is my son, Erlander,” Horik says, nodding to the boy beside him.

“And this our son, Bjorn,” Lagertha says.

The boys greet each other, and it doesn’t escape the adults the differences between the children. Bjorn is nearly a man now, with a short beard, his tall broad body standing about a good foot above Erlander, who is lanky and slim.  One is the son of a farmer, the other, the son of a king.

“Come,” Ragnar says steering Horik toward the great hall.

“You can meet the rest of my family.”

The introductions are brief as Horik acquaints himself with Ragnar’s people. He recognizes Siggy, the wife of the previous Earl Haraldson, but he wisely does not speak on it. And he recognizes Rollo, Ragnar’s traitorous brother. The two of them exchange heated looks, but the King decides to hold his tongue. He will approach this subject later.

“And _two_ wives?” He asks impressed when Aslaug approaches him in greeting, Sigurd in her arms and Ubbe and Hvitserk by her side. The air immediately grows thick with tension. But Aslaug speaks up, avoiding the question.

“I am pleased to meet you, King Horik.”

They do not address his question, and in their lack of response he knows the answer. That the princess is a mistress, not a wife.

“Ah.” Horik replies, his mind already pouring over the family dynamics he sees in play. This is a point of contention. All is not well in Ragnar Lotbrok’s home.

 It is not lost on him that the Lothbrok raids to the west have been successful. And he sees in them people who will become extremely powerful. Perhaps they can be of use to him, or perhaps he should begin considering a way to get rid of them. For now, he will allow them to live. But he is not under any pretense that the deal he forges with the Lothbroks can be rescinded at any time.

 The great hall is beginning to fill with more people when the horn sounds from the docks.

Someone else is coming. Horik looks at Ragnar questioningly.

“I have also invited Earl Sigvard of Hedeby here,” he says casually.

“Why? There is no need for a third person.”

“With respect my king, we believe there is strength in numbers,” Lagertha says, coming to stand alongside her husband.  “We’ve struck England three times, and I am sure they will be waiting for us. I do not believe we will have as smooth of a time as we had previously. We have lost the element of surprise.”

Ah, Lagertha. Horik stares appreciatively at Ragnar’s wife. From the way she stands, tall and straight, to the slight gestures of her hands, even her voice, slightly husky and deep—it reminds the king of his own wife and shield-maiden, Brunhild. Here is where he and Ragnar share something in common, a passion for strong women.

Horik relents.

“Very well. I am hungry!” he says to a cheer from the crowd.

 The dinner is being laid on the table when the doors to the hall open and Earl Sigvard and his men enter.

 They all stand to greet him. It is Lagertha who speaks first.

“Earl Sigvard, thank you for joining us. This is my husband, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

 Ragnar looks at Sigvard and smiles a predatory smile. He has not forgotten what this man tried to do with his wife. And he knows exactly what Sigvard did do to Lagertha in his past life.

Sigvard puts on his best brave face as he greets the earl. The look in Ragnar Lothbrok’s eyes countered by his stillness puts Sigvard instantly on guard.

“And this is King Horik.”

Sigvard greets the king, feeling momentarily relieved.

 “Come,” Ragnar says, “let us eat.”

.

.

“So, you have seen these things? In the west?” Horik asks after Ragnar and Lagertha have finished explaining the land they call England.

“Yes. And there is land, so much of it, rich and fertile. It would make a good farming settlement,” Lagertha says looking at Ragnar.

“Farming, farming,” Sigvard says dismissively. “But what of the spoils?”

“We have learned the Christians give all they have to their god. And the wealthiest places are their holy sites,” Ragnar says leaning in earnestly. “But there is much opportunity for our people over there. My wife is right. We believe the future lies to the west.”

“Then it is settled,” says Horik. “My men and I will travel with you, Earl Ragnar.”

They all turn to look at Sigvard.

“Then I too, will go.” But there’s reluctance in his voice, and Ragnar and Lagertha exchange looks.

The hall slowly transitions from dinner to a party and soon the fire is roaring, and the ale and the mead are pouring liberally.  There is laughter and song, and it has been a while since the hall has hosted so many people.

Lagertha is singing and dancing enjoying herself immensely when she feels an unfamiliar body press up against hers, and a soft hand grip her ass.

She turns quickly and backhands Earl Sigvard.

“How dare you insult me?!” She is enraged, and contemplating murdering him there, on the spot.

“Come now, Lagertha,” Sigvard says stepping closer to her. It is crowded and she can see Ragnar off in a far corner, along with Bjorn and Siggy. Rollo, Athelstan and Aslaug are speaking to Horik—all away from her.

“Why do you stay here with Ragnar Lothbrok? Your husband…and his _mistress_? You are too strong for this. Come with me. I can give you _everything_. Wealth. Power...” His breath is hot as he leers at her.

It is a terrible attempt at seduction.

“You are a coward, Sigvard. And you could n _ever_ handle a woman like me.”

She turns to walk away but he grabs her arm and pulls her back. A knee makes contact with his balls, and he lashes out--slapping her. The force of the blow sends her to the ground. And the laughter in the hall dies. The side of her face is burning, but not with pain… Lagertha gets up slowly, dusting off her dress, and straightening her hair.  She sees Ragnar running toward them but it is too late.

Before Sigvard can blink, she slips a knife from the sleeve of her dress and stabs him in the neck. He howls as he collapses to the floor, trying to hold in the blood but failing. Kneeling down, Lagertha quickly slits his throat, finishing him off. He falls at her feet, dead.

Her dress is ruined, and there is blood on her face and hands. But she does not care. It is done.

 Ragnar, Rollo, Bjorn, Torstein, Athelstan and Floki quickly come to her side and the hall divides into three factions—their men, those of Horik and those loyal to the now dead Earl Sigvard. Swords and axes are drawn. It is a standoff, each waiting for the other side to make a move.

One of Sigvard’s men steps forward and drops his axe, kneeling before Lagertha. He is tall, with dark hair and eyes. His shoulders are broad and he carries himself with the bearing of a warrior, yet speaks with the authority of a nobleman.  

Sigvard’s other warriors follow him.  Lagertha steps forward.

“What is your name?” she asks the man kneeling before her.

“I am Kalf,” he says. “And Hedeby is now yours, _Earl_ Lagertha.”

Ragnar is struggling to make sense out of the turn of events. Lagertha had killed Sigvard the first time, and now she has done it again. Hedeby is now hers. It is a strategic coup, one that he had not seen coming. His wife is now an earl in both marriage and by right.

That night, King Horik is in the guest house with his son Erlander. But they are not sleeping.

“Did you see what she did to Sigvard, father?” Erlander asks worriedly. “What is to stop her from doing the same to you?”

It is a good question, Horik thinks. The Lothbroks have just expanded their territory, and the combined forces of Kattegat and Hedeby are…formidable.

“Be patient, Erlander,” he tells his son.

“Power is only given to those prepared to lower themselves to pick it up.”

For now, they must wait. For chance. And opportunity. Horik is sure that Ragnar and Lagertha will soon give him one.


	8. Chapter 8

**They have decided to bring Athelstan along with them to Wessex. His training has progressed well, and Ragnar and Lagertha know that he will be an asset in what they hope will be fruitful negotiations for land. And Bjorn will come too. It will be his first raid.**

They are greeted by an envoy as they come ashore.

 Ragnar holds up an arm to prevent attack, as their ships draw closer. His family gets out of their boat, and goes to greet the envoy that has come to them.

“Ragnar Lothbrok. I am Prince Aethelwulf. My father sends his…regards.”

It is Athelstan who speaks for them.

“Prince Aethelwulf, we are honored.”

The prince looks at him in surprise. “You are one of us?” He asks, disbelieving.

“I…was,” Athelstan replies.  Aethelwulf stares at him hard before turning to the others.

“My father would like to see you. I will return once you have been settled,” he says.

They watch as he leaves. Lagertha directs the warriors to make camp. Once again, trees are felled and tents erected. It is late evening by the time a small settlement emerges on the shores of Wessex.

“Well, what are we doing?” Horik demands once the leaders are gathered together again.  “He will leave and bring back an army!”

“No, he won’t.” Athelstan says. “If the king has sent his son, it’s a genuine gesture.”

Lagertha and Ragnar nod in agreement. “We had agreed to meet Ecbert upon our return,” Ragnar says. “So, we will meet him.”

“But what about the spoils?!” Horik is incensed. “We came here to _raid_. I have men who _crave_ blood and battle. What use is _talking_ when we can just take?”

“Why spill blood unnecessarily?” It is Bjorn who speaks up. “Why risk our people if we can reach an agreement and exact payment without having to kill? Perhaps this could be a new way…if the Christians don’t want a war.”

Lagertha and Ragnar exchange approving looks. Bjorn has learned well. But Horik has not.

“I AM KING!” he yells at them. “All this talk of farming and settling—it is a dream! And nothing more. You will do as I command! And I say we kill them before they can return with more men!”

Ragnar has been seated on the ground during most of the exchange. Now he rises, and goes to stand by his son and wife.

“Well,” Ragnar says coolly. “Since you are King, we must obey you.”

Bjorn and Lagertha move to object, but he silences them with a look.

“Good,” Horik says eyeing them all angrily.  “We will wait for their return, and we will strike. Send a message. And wait. For War.” He turns to leave them, his son Erlander following behind.

 “I told you there would be an opportunity,” Horik says to his son when they are out of earshot.

.

.

“Ragnar, what are we doing?” Lagertha asks. They have gathered in his tent—Bjorn, Lagertha, Torstein, Floki and Rollo.

“We should try to meet with the King,” Rollo says. “If Horik attacks, it will appear as if we have gone back on our word.”

“But his word is above mine,” Ragnar says calmly. He knows how this will play out. A light rain has begun to fall.

“Prepare yourselves,” he says. Everyone looks at each other, not exactly sure whether Ragnar is talking to them, or someone else. Slowly they leave, until it is just Ragnar and Lagertha alone. She comes to sit beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. He reaches out to stroke her hair, and kiss her gently on the forehead.

“A storm is coming,” she says.

He nods in agreement.

.

.

It happens as he had figured it would.

Aethelwulf’s envoy is attacked on their way back. And when they return, it is with a large contingent of troops. Horik leads their forces into battle, but this time, Ragnar is prepared. He has opted to leave two contingents behind, sending them off in different directions. And when Aethelwulf’s army attacks from the front, right and left, Ragnar’s forces manage to hold off the right and left flanks.

 The battle is bloody yet even though they are driven back, Ragnar has managed to save many more of his own men. And most importantly, he has managed to save his brother.

Rollo emerges from the fight unscathed, bloodied but untouched. Bjorn is well too.

Most of Horik’s men are slaughtered.

 But in the fight and the confusion they have lost one…

Athelstan is gone.

Ragnar looks again to the shores of England. They will be back. But there is business they must attend to at home.

It is time for their people to have a new king.

**-xxx-**

**When he arrives back in Kattegat he holds Lagertha close, and whispers in her ear that tonight, he must stay in the hall.**

**She pulls back from him with a look that flickers between hurt and resignation and they part ways. She will go to her home, and Bjorn will go with her. They will see each other again the next day. And so he goes to lay with Aslaug.**

But when he greets her he can tell the princess is not in the mood. The children are asleep, and he tries not to wake them as they whisper angrily to each other.

“You need to choose,” Aslaug tells him in a raised whisper. “It is either me, or Lagertha.”

“I will _not_ make that choice. It was _you_ who came to Kattegat. It was _you_ who sought _me_ out in Gotaland. Or do you not remember that?” he retorts.

She paces. “I hate you!”

“I know. But this is our arrangement.”

Aslaug looks at him, a combination of hurt, disgust and anger on her face. Ragnar has spoken aloud what they have both known, but she has refused to admit. That this is an arrangement--and nothing more. It is, and always has been, a transaction.

 He steps toward her and pulls her into his arms, raising her dress and placing a kiss on her shoulder. She tenses and tries to push him away, but he stays with her.

“One more time,” he whispers. “One more time, and I will never touch you again. I swear.”

“I can’t,” she says. “I have seen our next child, and I am fearful…” but Ragnar won’t take no for an answer. And so she relents.

It is the only time that she can be close to him. When he’s inside her she tries to imagine that he loves her, that she is his wife not his mistress, that they are something more than just two people in relationship of convenience. But this time, her fantasy is failing her. And she finds that her body just isn’t responding the way it used to. As he moves on top of her, she imagines he is someone else. Anyone else, but there is no satisfaction. No release-- at least for her. She waits until Ragnar finishes and it’s a relief when he finally moves off of her.  Aslaug knows he is not satisfied. But satisfaction is not why they do this.

She needs him for security, protection. He needs her, for children. 

He has promised  this is the last time. And she knows that it will be. Aslaug rolls away from him to the far side of the bed and falls asleep.

But Ragnar cannot.

Aslaug has now given him three sons. And he knows there will soon be a fourth. But he also recognizes that she has grown more miserable by the day and he knows that her desire for him has burned out. Perhaps there is a different path to take? He mulls it over in his mind, a way to placate, if not satisfy Aslaug. He will speak with his wife. He believes he has a solution, if Lagertha will accept it. No, he knows this is the solution. And Lagertha will have no choice but to accept it.

Restless, he gets up and leaves the quarters, going to the water still inside the great hall. He takes his time washing his body until he is sure that all traces of Aslaug are gone. He puts on his clothes, pulling on his boots and on his way out he stops by his sons, planting kisses on their sweet faces. The baby squirms a bit, and he holds his breath, but Sigurd doesn’t wake. He smiles.

His sons are beautiful, and he has once again risked his future happiness to get them. The boards creak softly under his feet as he slips out of the great hall, and begins to make his way up the mountain toward Lagertha’s house. _Her_ house.

After more than three years in this…predicament, it is still her home. He is merely a guest. It would be so much better to have Lagertha back in town sharing his bed, but she has already said she will not lay with him and Aslaug, and she has held fast to that. No matter how late the hour, Lagertha always goes home. He hopes for a night when she doesn’t; when he can feel her and have her in the bed they once shared together. He wants to make love to her in that bed. They have been estranged now three years and only once has she ever given in to him, and he knows that desire for _him_ was not what led her to it. It could well have been anyone, and that is what worries his mind.

Ragnar knows his wife. He knows her needs and passions, and this is not the first time he has wondered if another man has slipped inside her bed during this long separation.

The journey up the mountain takes about 30 minutes by horse, and he uses that time to prepare himself. Thankfully, she has given him a key. And he uses it. There’s a fire and it’s large enough to heat the entire space.

“Where is Bjorn?” He asks. Lagertha is still awake and standing in front of the hearth.

“Bjorn…” she says. “Is with his girlfriend.”

“A girlfriend?” He says, surprised. How has he not noticed this?

“Yes. A young woman from your household staff. Porunn.”

The name is familiar, but he is struggling to place the face.

“Well, he is of that age now.” Ragnar says, coming to stand beside her.

“I know. He seems to have great affection for the girl. I hope he treats her well.”

“Mmm….” He smirks at bit, remembering himself at that same age. Chasing women. Chasing fights. There were a lot of women…and more than enough fights.

“Bjorn is a responsible young man. He will.”

“I hope so. In matters like these, I hope _I_ have taught him well.” There is an edge to it.

Ragnar grimaces. His wife’s words cut him. “You hope he will not follow in my footsteps, is what you mean,” he says.

She looks at him and her face is a mask. But he already knows.

“You’re right, _husband_.” Lagertha moves away from the fire and goes to sit on the bed. She slowly begins to braid her hair.

Perhaps he should have come tomorrow. It’s the prelude to a fight, which has not happened in a while.

“What have I done now?” There’s exasperation tinged with irritation. He had thought they were doing so well. For the past several months he has mostly been here, with her at night. They have slept together near constantly and she has allowed him a greater degree of intimacy than before. Where did he go wrong?

“You lied,” she blunt. Ragnar doesn’t understand.

“I have _never_ lied to you,” he says, coming to crouch by her legs, and putting his chin on her thigh. She moves her leg away.

“You promised me I would never know.”

Slowly, understanding dawns. Lagertha is looking at him, waiting, and he opens his mouth then closes it, and stands.

 She’s still waiting as he begins to pace the length of the room, trying to find words, and failing.  It is so quiet he swears he can hear a rat piss outside. Finally, the silence becomes too loud.

“Tonight was the last time,” he says turning to face her.  

Lagertha scoffs and turns her back on him as she begins to remove her dress, revealing the slip underneath. He can see the outline of her body under the thin fabric, and feels the familiar ache in his stomach. He weighs the options. Leave or stay. They are definitely heading toward a fight, but he is also determined to stay.

As soon as he touches her, she turns around to slap him, but he grabs her hand before the punch can land. The kick aimed at his groin is blocked but in doing so he has to release her hands, and a hard punch lands on his jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

 “I should have left you!” Lagertha is breathing hard, her chest heaving as she looks at him, holding his chin. There will definitely be a bruise in the morning.

“But you didn’t,” he tells her, moving toward her slowly. She is watching him warily, her fists balled up. He holds up his hands in peace.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Ragnar.”

“Then we won’t. I won’t. I swear, it was the last time.”

“I’m TIRED. I’m tired of pretending that I am happy. I am tired of pretending that this,” she gestures around the house, is fine. It’s _not_ fine. I want my home back. I want my _life_ back. I want _our_ lives back.”

There. She’s finally said it, and Ragnar knows, in looking at Lagertha's face, her eyes bright with unshed tears, that this is their breaking point. And he also knows that what he says next _needs_ to be said, and that it will likely splinter them.

“We can’t go back.”

It is a bitter, hard truth. There is no reversal. Their farm is gone. Their daughter is gone. The children cannot be returned. He stands, waiting for her to make the next move.

She shakes her head trying to clear out the tears behind her eyes. They will not be allowed to fall. Lagertha had believed herself to be over it, to have accepted that this is the way they were to be now. But it was clear as they stepped off the boats and he had told her he was going to the great hall, that she had not, truly had not, moved beyond the betrayal. And because she knew _why_ he was going—it made the sharp pangs in her stomach that much worse. There will be no more denial. No more acceptance.

“I am leaving for Hedeby tomorrow,” she tells him once she has regained her composure.  “There are civil matters to address. And since I am Earl there, it is my duty to handle them.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps for the next _nine_ _months_.” It’s snarky. Deliberately meant to hurt.

He sits down on a chair and runs his hand over his face and beard. As her husband he could deny her from going, but he knows that she will do so anyway. And he has never been in a position to deny Lagertha anything. At least it is not  divorce, more like another separation. And right as they were beginning to come back together.

“Very well, then.”

It’s all he can muster as he gets up to leave, but when he gets to the door he stops, remembering why he came her in the first place. If she is leaving tomorrow, then he will have no choice but to make tonight even worse.

“I have something I would like to discuss with you…regarding Aslaug,” he says, drawing out each word.

Lagertha is already sliding into bed, but she pauses and looks back at him.

“What about _Aslaug_?” It’s a warning.

“She is deeply unhappy, and she has been for a very long time." 

Lagertha laughs, but it is full of resentment. “You do not say.”

He ignores that.

“I am thinking of granting her more responsibility over the household. She seems to enjoy these sorts of things, and you and I… we do not.”

“So you would take even more from me...” Lagertha begins, “…and give to her?”

“You are still my wife, and you are still an Earl. You will always be superior to her in role and in value. You will still administer civil duties, but Aslaug is miserable and…”

“You feel guilty.” She finishes for him.

“Good night, Ragnar.” Her voice is flat as she dismisses him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lagertha is greeted in Hedeby with cheers. She has only been in the great hall once before. It is Kalf, the warrior, who comes out to greet her.**

“Earl Lothbrok,” he says bowing his head in greeting. “Welcome to Hedeby.”

She smiles, a genuine smile.

“Thank you, Kalf. I am sorry it has taken so long for me to get here.”

“It is not a problem, my lady. We have made arrangements for you. I hope your quarters will be to your satisfaction.”

He guides her toward the back of the hall and into the living quarters. The furnishings here are far superior to what she has in Kattegat, almost too luxurious, but there will no complaints. Hedeby is a well-established trading port, far larger than Kattegat, and it is wealthy for a reason. Still, she is not used to such things, and it makes her slightly uncomfortable.

“Thank you again, Kalf. The rooms are lovely.”

He is looking at her in a way that makes her flush. It’s been a long time since a man openly admired her in such a way, and she thinks it is very sweet.

Lagertha plants a soft, friendly kiss on his cheek in gratitude. It sends a rush through Kalf’s body and he subtly changes position, thankful that the robe he is wearing covers his growing erection.

 **“** How long will you be staying?” He tries not to sound too hopeful.

“About nine months. There is a lot to do here, I know. And I need to get acquainted with the court. I am sure many have not taken well to the death of Earl Sigvard, and I’m under no illusion or expectation that I will be welcomed with open arms.

“You may be surprised, Earl Lagertha. Earl Sigvard was nearly universally despised here.”

Well, then it is good I am here. Please Kalf, will you show me around the compound?”

He is more than pleased.  All of Hedeby has heard the stories of the western raids, and Kalf has seen just how deadly his new earl is. He was aware of Lagertha even before he met her in Kattegat, having heard the stories of the shield-maiden who has slain thousands of men. Before there was a Ragnar Lothbrok, there was Lagertha.

And she is no myth. She is everything he has imagined. And it both thrills and scares him at the same time.

When he saw her, that first time in the hall, Kalf was speechless. She was far more beautiful than any sheildmaiden he’d ever seen. Her face was perfect like Freyja and her movements were graceful. She commanded the room. The moment she killed Earl Sigvard was when she revealed more than beauty and grace—she was fearless. It turned him on and made him very afraid at the same time. There were numerous plots to murder Sigvard but no one in Hedeby had ever dare try. Yet Lagertha had no qualms—she was quick, and she was decisive. 

Beneath all the beauty is a mind and a heart like steel. Since then, Lagertha has been in his thoughts and in his dreams. Kalf desires her. Greatly. But he is not dumb. She is still another man’s wife, and not just any man. Ragnar Lothbrok’s wife, and that makes her off-limits to him.

.

.

Hedeby is a lovely place. The land is rich and fertile, and crops grow easy here. Lagertha has planted a small garden outside the great hall, and she has worked on it for weeks on end. It feels good to toil in the earth, and it reminds her of happier days, when she was a farmer’s wife, and this work was all they had. She is three months into her stay and while she wishes for it, she knows this peace will not last forever. At some point, she will have to go home, and she will need to entrust the care of Hedeby to someone.

The first night at court began somewhat awkwardly, as she had been approached by a man she later learned was Earl Sigvard’s cousin, Einar. But the situation was quickly diffused before she had to defend herself. Kalf had come to her aid. It was an endearing moment—she was perfectly able to handle it on her own—but she could see in Kalf a genuine and honest heart, and those were rare. The rest of the court has accepted her and it is good. She has had time to appraise Hedeby’s warriors, the men and women who will be fighting alongside her soon. Training has also started. And that too, brings her joy. Fighting has always been cathartic.

But it would be far nicer though, she thinks, if her son were here.

Lagertha misses the child Bjorn was, but he is nearly a man now. A soft smile plays at her lips as she thinks about it. Bjorn has other priorities. And from what he had observed before she left, she thinks those priorities are serious. He is the same age Ragnar was when he married her. And Bjorn is just as earnest in his pursuit of Porunn as Ragnar had been of her. It is wonderful to think of her son in love. She hopes he will stay that way, and that the girl will accept him. Though she is a slave, Bjorn does not treat her as one, and that makes Lagertha proud.

The sunlight has started to fade across the sky, and casting a wistful glance at her carrots, she gets up, brushing the dirt from her dress.

“I will be back tomorrow,” she speaks to the plants, giving them an affectionate pat before moving to go inside.

 “Margarethe, could you please draw some hot water for the bath?” she asks her attendant. The young girl nods and moves away to begin filling the copper tub in the middle of her quarters.

Yes. Hedeby does have advantages, but Lagertha is beginning to feel slightly homesick as well. She does miss Kattegat, misses fishing off the docks, and most of all, she misses her friends.

She removes her dress, but keeps on her slip, settling into a chair in her bedchamber as Margarethe fills the basin with hot and cold water. Soon it is full, and Lagertha removes her slip, steps in and sinks down.

The water is perfect, the steam billowing through her skin and hair. She lets it slip between her fingers as she closes her eyes and exhales, her other hand sliding down her body to settle between her legs. This has become habit, getting pleasure from herself. She misses the days when she had a husband at her disposal regularly, one to take care of these things as they arose. The last time she had had sex was…nearly two years ago.

She blinks and exhales.

Has it really been that long? Yes. And before that? Two years prior, the night before he left for Gotaland. Nearly four years. And only twice in that that time has she had sex with someone outside of her herself. and both times were with her husband.

It is not because she has not wanted to. There have been many, subtle offers. But there is nothing in Kattegat that is of interest to her. And she has not been willing to do to another woman what her husband did to her. There are certain things she has always taken very seriously, and marriage is one of them. She is also extremely picky. The whole thing is sad. And pitiful. Perhaps she should have taken another lover, as Ragnar took his. At least one of her needs would have been met.

Lagertha exhales shakily. Her own hands are a far from satisfying.

Perhaps this is what is best. She can just stay here, in Hedeby, and they can have a “marriage” in the classical sense, but nothing else. Hell, they’ve not had a real marriage in years. But the idea just doesn’t hold the same sort of appeal as it used to. She doesn’t want a classical marriage, she wants a real one. She wants her husband back. She wants the man she loved when they were young and happy on their farm. She wants him to be fully hers again. And this is what keeps Lagertha in Kattegat. Because she loves Ragnar with everything she is and she hates his ass with every fiber of her being. For four years she has been constantly torn between killing him and everyone around him.

Ragnar had promised she would not know when he fucked his mistress. And he had held to that—until their return. What had possessed him to say it? They had been so close…she had been close to finally saying yes. She had been nearly ready to go home.

 A moan escapes her lips as she works herself feverishly.

A soft creak from a corner of the room catches her attention, and she dips her head below the water as she gathers herself. When she emerges, she calls out.

“Come out. I know you’re there.”

Kalf steps toward her from behind the wall.

“Earl Lagertha, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He’s trying hard to avert his eyes, but she won’t let him get off that easily.

“How long have you been back there, Kalf?” She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Long enough,” he says, before realizing the full implication of the words that have just come out of his mouth.

“What do you want?”

“I came to tell you that we have received word from Kattegat. Your husband says we will go back to England.”

“Is that all?” she’s looking at Kalf more intently now, noting how tall he is, how kind his eyes are, and how broad his shoulders. He has a beautiful mouth. And an honest face. His hair is dark and thing, pulled back. He is a handsome man. It is not the first time she has thought this. She thought the same when he bowed to her in her hall.

 Lagertha shifts, her knees breaking the water line but the rest of her staying submerged. Kalf follows the movement with his eyes.

“I should not be here.” He turns to go away.

“Do you have any other place to be?” Her hands are useless…and her body is craving far more than it has been given.

He has been aching to touch her, every day it’s becoming worse and worse. But now, here she is, and he is so close to having what he has been wanting now for months. It had been wrong to enter her bedroom, but the soft moans had caught his attention and he couldn’t look away from his hiding place behind the wall as she touched herself. He wondered what she was thinking of, _who_ she was thinking of, and he had gotten too excited. But when he was finally able to get himself together enough to leave, she had caught him. And now, he really can’t escape.

Not that he wants to.

He watches helplessly as Lagertha rises out of the water, the droplets falling from her skin, as she walks toward him, and comes to stand in front of him, her nipples brushing against the fabric of his tunic.

 “What do you want…Kalf?” She asks. It’s throaty and deep and the feel of her so close has made his body start to hum…it’s also made something else rise to attention, again. Lagertha uses the opportunity to touch him, her hands on his chest, his shoulders…she runs her finger down his stomach, feeling the muscles there, feeling them contract under her touch, and she can see clearly the other muscle that strains against his pants.

“I want to taste you…” he whispers.

“Then taste me.”

He does not need to be told twice. Kalf gets down on his knees, and puts his face between her legs, his tongue slipping between the soft folds of her pussy to taste what he has been imaging for so, so long.

This time when she moans, it’s for him. His scalp tingles as her fingers grip his hair, urging him for more, and he is happy to give her exactly what he wants as she slides down just a little to allow his tongue to probe deeper inside her body. It is so, so good.

He doesn’t resist either when she begins to move against his face, a slow grind that makes him get so hard he can barely move without leaking.

She comes hard and suddenly, her body quaking, as he kisses her soft folds eagerly, making sure to catch every drop. His own release follows, and he moans between her thighs. She hasn’t even touched him and yet it is the single best orgasm he’s ever had.

Lagertha’s breathing is uneven and ragged as she comes down from her orgasmic high. Dear gods this man’s mouth…but in the back of her mind there is a warning. And no matter how much she wants Kalf to continue…she can’t.

 She pushes him back gently.

“No more.”

He looks up at her with a powerful combination of adoration, desire and longing and it makes her think, not for the first time, that maybe a divorce is the right move. She moves away from him and reaches for her robe, wrapping it around herself as if protection. From what—she knows, but won’t acknowledge.

Kalf gets up slowly as if waking from a stupor.

“My apologies, Earl Lothbrok.”

“My apologies to you too, Kalf.”

But it doesn’t last.

When he comes back to her rooms a few days later she greets him wordlessly. They remove each other’s clothes, touching and exploring. It is a new experience for Lagertha. She has never been with another man outside of Ragnar. And it feels dangerous and exciting at the same time.

She arches into Kalf’s kiss, his touch and it is low and passionate, but when he moves to go inside her, she gently pushes him away.

“No, not that.”

“Then can I use my hands?” he whispers.

Her kiss is confirmation. And so they make love with their hands, and their mouths and their bodies. It quickly becomes a habit. A routine.

.

.

Something is wrong.

 Ragnar _is restless._ He cannot stop his mind from racing with thoughts—Lagertha. His life and his love play over and over in his mind. It is not something he can control. She is hovering there, just out of his reach, and it is slowly driving him insane. They have never been apart this long.

The great hall is being expanded, and the children and Aslaug are asleep in the public area. He’s been building on to create a new private space—personal quarters to give his wife, so that she will come back.

Aslaug’s belly is expanding and soon their child will be here. He goes to her and lays a hand on her stomach, whispering to the life inside.

“I know who you are, Ivar. Do not fear, my son. You will be safe.”

The baby moves inside his mother, and he can feel the flutters on his hands. Aslaug has complained of pain, and he knows that this pregnancy will be the worst. He is doing everything he can to keep her comfortable, more than he did with the other three children, and more than he did the last time because he knows she will need her strength during labor.

Aslaug has wondered aloud the changes in him, but he has let them go unacknowledged. He remembers her sacrifice the first time. She nearly died, and though he does not love her, he does care for her. She is the mother of his children. She has given him three beautiful sons and will soon deliver the first. He has been present at birthings and he knows what it takes from women to bring life into the world.  “I will see you through this,” he has told Aslaug and he is sincere in this. Ragnar has always been a man of his word.

Still, his mind remains troubled. In five months’ time the warriors of Kattegat will depart for Wessex and He has sent word to Hedeby in order for them to begin to prepare. He had expected at least some acknowledgement of the message. But nothing has come back.

In his dreams he’s haunted by the image of his wife, glorious and naked, astride a faceless man. Each time he sees it, each time he dreams it the knot in his stomach twists tighter by the day, and his anxiety grows worse, until he can no longer take it. He must know.

He tells Aslaug that he is leaving in morning. And he tells her that he will return soon, placing a kiss on her forehead and gently rubbing her stomach before departing.

When Ragnar arrives days later in Hedeby the town is bustling. He has not been here since he was a teenager, and Hedeby is far larger and busier than Kattegat. It is the fur season, and in the town square, the merchants are bartering their wares. This is what Kattegat could be one day, he thinks as he makes his way up to the great hall.

It is larger than his, finer—there is more, here. More…things. But things have never impressed him. And he does not stop to admire. His arrival has gone unnoticed and it is good. He does not want to make a formal entrance. Instead of going inside the hall, Ragnar slips around back. But he stops when he sees his wife.

Lagertha in a small garden tending vegetables, and there is a man there beside her. Ragnar watches the way they lean in to one another—close, but not touching. Yet there’s an intimacy between them that he recognizes, an intimacy that makes his blood run hot with rage. It is the sort of intimacy that builds in a romantic relationship—the sort of intimacy that he and his wife used to share. It is abundantly clear that his man has touched his wife. More than touched, by the looks of it. Lagertha’s laugh rings in his ears and she smiles a smile that used to be reserved for him. Ragnar backs up against a wall, just out of sight. He wants to kill someone, something. He knows this man.

Kalf.

Lagertha’s usurper, her lover, and her ex-husband. The father of her lost child.

Ragnar remembers how his actions drove his wife into this man’s bed the last time, and he knows with certainty that he has driven her there again. There is jealousy and anger and resentment, and sorrow and all of these things he feels acutely.  This cannot happen again. It WILL NOT happen again, the gods be damned. He will see his wife tonight. And they WILL have a conversation. But first, he must regain control of his temper because all he can see is Kalf…with his hands wrapped around that man’s fucking neck.

.

.

The great hall of Hedeby is buzzing with people and laughter.  Children chasing each other around the large tables, running in an out and between the legs of adults. Lagertha is seated on the high chair, sipping her wine and enjoying herself. Kalf is seated slightly away from her, but still by her side.

The doors to the hall open and she stands abruptly spilling her wine, as her husband enters. She hasn’t seen Ragnar in nearly five months, and the sight of him sends a chill down her body. Kalf gets to his feet too, as Ragnar walks toward them, a predatory smile on his face and his eyes flashing. She knows that look. It is barely contained anger.

“All hail Earl Lothbrok!” It is Kalf who announces Ragnar’s arrival.

“All hair Earl Lothbrok!” the crowd responds. Lagertha steps down from her perch and moves toward her husband as he comes to stand in front of her.

“Earl Lothbrok,” he says, his eyes tracing her body.

“Earl Lothbrok,” she says, doing the same.

Neither of them backs down.  The crowd around them has gone back to drinking and dancing. It is readily apparent he has come for a purpose, and by the look in his eyes she knows he wants to kill something. They are heading for a fight, and the last thing she needs is for it to be public. And so she makes a decision.

“Come,” she says extending her hand and guiding him to her private rooms.

When the doors close behind them, she sits on a chair and crosses her legs.

“So,” he says not quite casually, beginning to circle her slowly. “What have you been up to, my _wife_?” It comes out as an accusation, not a question.

“I’ve been… enjoying myself.” She can see the tension in his body through his armor. And she knows what he is accusing her of. Maybe she should tell him the truth. Or maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe he already knows.

“Enjoying yourself…” he laughs bitterly. “Perhaps a little too much?”

“And who are _you_ to speak?”

“I am your husband!” His shouting makes her jump and the doors swing open, as Kalf comes in.

“Is there anything I can do, Earl Lothbrok?” He asks coming to stand by Lagertha and glaring at Ragnar, one hand on the handle of an axe by his side.

“No, Kalf. This is a conversation between my _husband_ and myself.” She lays a hand on his chest and pushes him back.  Reluctantly, he leaves.

“So, that’s him, then.”

“Yes.”

It’s the answer he didn’t want. He’s stunned. Shocked that she did it. Shocked that she told him…and more than hurt. Devastated really. It is as if all the sounds have drained from the room and all he can hear is the beating of his own heart in his ears, the feel of his blood, hot, through his veins. His head is pounding and the room is beginning to spin.

“How is _Aslaug_?” The sarcasm is thick.

So this is his wife’s revenge. His punishment.

Four years. Four years in Hel. Four years of torture. This is a circumstance he could not foresee. His beloved wife, sleeping with another man. Perhaps it is only by the grace of the gods it had not happened sooner. This must be how she felt when she learned of his infidelity. All other emotions begin to fall away, except one.

As he stares at his wife, resplendent in a blue gown, her hair wrapped around her face in braids, he realizes how dangerous and precarious his own situation has become. Lagertha exudes nothing but absolute control, while he is the one that stands before her shaken, and weakened. Should she leave him she would be rightfully entitled to half of his property along with the lands that came with her bridal dowry, and he has given her firm ground for a divorce. It would be to her advantage, and she would rule over his lands and her own. He would be useless. He already is. Hers is the stronger position. And she has a lover waiting to step into his place. Kalf, he knows, has already done so. Lagertha has everything she needs in this moment. She has no need of him.

He is worthless to her, a realization that comes with a hurt so great it brings him to his knees and he knows with clarity that this is exactly how she has felt these past four years.

 “Are you done punishing me now?” He extends his hands outward, palms up. It comes out defeated, and pleading. The tension is thick between them, and they study each other carefully, each debating what the next move will be. Lagertha’s face is completely impassive and he does not know what she’s thinking…or feeling.

He has no choice but to wait.   

The silence stretches into what feels like forever.

“Please…” It is the only word he can say as he recalls acutely the day she left, riding away in a wagon, her son in her arms. The memory is bold and vivid, and he can feel the heat behind his eyes as he realizes how close he is to losing the family he has been trying to save. Ragnar closes his eyes and exhales.

A single tear manages to escape. He has only ever cried in front of her. And it has only happened a few times. Their first night as husband and wife, once when Bjorn was born, and once when Gyda came. A warrior only shows his heart when the axe reveals it, and his wife has wielded that weapon against him.

She has brought him low. He has been humbled.

A slow smile spreads across Lagertha’s face as she walks toward Ragnar, and extends one hand to him, bringing him up off his knees to face her. It is apparent that finally, after all this time, he now understands. She can see the awareness dawning on him, and never has her husband looked so broken. This does not please her. It tears at her heart, but she knows it had to be done.  And now that it is, now that he gets it, they can finally move on.

Her arms wrap around his waist, and she lays her head on his chest, feeling his heart beat. Steady, strong. Ragnar smells like sandalwood and the sea, a scent she has always found intoxicating. He embraces her and leans down, his face in her hair. She smells like earth and flowers, and he breathes her in.

Pure relief washes over him and he thinks this is what it must be like to be baptized.

Gods, he has missed her.

Lagertha raises her face to find his lips, and they kiss, and hold each other relishing in the feeling of touch long denied. Ragnar savors the taste of her mouth, and his hand slide up her back to slowly begin the work of unlacing the stays in back of her dress.

It falls to the floor.

Their kiss deepens.

His wife’s deft hands remove his belt, his armor and his tunic as their touch grows with more urgency. And when those hands begin to unlace his pants he knows exactly what to do.

Ragnar lifts her and carries her to the bed where he removes the slip and lays her down, coming to rest between her legs.

 “I’m sorry,” he says, staring into her eyes, waiting for permission. For acceptance, if she will have him.   

“Shut up.” Lagertha raises her legs and grabs his hips, pushing him down and he knows better than to say anything else. When he enters her she cries out and grips his ass and he knows, with certainty, that whatever happened between Lagertha and Kalf, it wasn’t this.  She’s so tight and hot it nearly makes him lose it, and has to take a moment to try and get his life together. As he begins to move inside her, slowly, taking his time, he can tell by her breathing, and by the tightness that surrounds him, that he has always been the only man here.  It gives him a rush, a feeling of intense possession, and he wants to make sure it’s good, so very good for her.

They make love slowly on the bed…and on the floor…and against the wall…and back to the bed.

“Did he do this for you, my love?” he whispers as they change positions and she rolls onto her stomach. He trails his tongue between her cheeks and up her spine, coming to lay on her back, lacing her fingers with his and sliding back in for a new angle.

Her moans are encouragement, pleading, begging him to go harder, faster…but he won’t. Instead, he takes his time, drawing slow, deep thrusts and he can feel her contracting around him. There will be no relief anytime soon from the slow burn of pleasure he’s inflicting on them both. “Lagertha,” he whispers in her ear. All she can do is moan in response.

“Tell me…did he?”

“No…” it’s a gasp and a whisper. And it’s a head rush. A shot to his bruised and broken ego.

He can feel his orgasm beginning to build and he adjusts himself to stave it off, just a little longer…until he can’t.

“Ragnar…” the sound of his name out of her mouth sends him surging, and he begins to roll his hips to give her more. She arches into his motions and soon, he is going faster and harder. And her cries are louder. There is no doubt anyone in the hall can hear them, and when they come, together, it is with a shout, and a scream. They say each other’s names. And they tell each other the truth.

That yes. He loves her, more than anyone and anything. And yes, she loves him, and always will. And that yes, she will come back home. And no, she won’t leave. And no, he won’t leave. And yes, they will always be together.

She wipes away his tears and he kisses hers, and they laugh. They laugh like teenagers who have just experienced their first time, they laugh like the day they were first married, laugh like the day their children were born. It is purifying, this laughter. They laugh like friends, like lovers, like the soul mates they are. And in this laughter, Ragnar knows that all will be well. He feels like a new man.

It is mid-afternoon the next day before they speak to each other again, with words.

His wife is curled up under his shoulder, her hand on his chest, her legs entwined with his. They’re still coming down from another post-sex high and he’s lost count of the number of times they’ve come together since last night.

“Have you given any thought to leadership here when you come home?” It’s raspy as he turns his head to meet her lips in a kiss. Her leg brushes against his.

“I have,” she says, equally hoarse as she runs a hand down his chest, the hairs flitting across her hand.

“Mmm…” Ragnar’s eyes have closed again. “Who will you name as regent?” He thinks he knows. But wants her to say it.

“I will name Kalf.”

He smiles.

“What are you grinning about? I thought you hated him?”

“Why would I hate him?” He turns to face her, rolling her onto her back before moving on top.

“He loves you,” he says before lowering his head to kiss her neck and her chest, letting his tongue work its way down her belly before kissing the faint lines on her stomach. Some from Bjorn, some for Gyda. He dips lower, but she stops him before he can go any further. He looks at her quizzically.

“I’m sore.”

Ah. He kisses the inside of her thighs instead before coming back up and moving off her, pulling her against his chest and laying more across her face. His mouth has been everywhere on her body.  It’s been a long time since they just did this—spent a day naked, and making love. In fact, it’s been years. They have not loved like this since their children were babies. Ragnar hasn’t felt this close to Lagertha in a long time. Her heartbeat matches his. His breathing matches hers.

“I will need to speak with him privately,” he murmurs against her skin.

“mmmm…” His wife is already asleep. And he follows her.

They spend the next several days in bed. Food is brought to the outer chambers and Lagertha is clear that she is not to be disturbed for anything short of war.

.

.

Kalf needed the air. He didn’t know how badly he needed it until he was several miles away from Hedeby in the countryside, on a hill overlooking the compound. Here, in the privacy of the forests, he can scream, and cry and rage—rage against the gods for allowing him to fall in love with a woman who belongs to someone else. It is clear that Lagertha will never be his wife. But he has never been more certain that she is the only woman he will ever love. She is everything that he has wanted—everything, it seems, except for the fact that she is emotionally and now physically unavailable to him.

 He had stayed in the great hall for as long as he could after she pushed him out of her rooms. He had hung back in case anything happened. And something had happened. He left when he heard the first moans, the sound ringing in his ears as images of her under his body flashed in his mind. He couldn’t stand it.

But he knows he will have to live with it. Serves him right, for falling for a woman that he was never meant to have. Serves him right for loving another man’s wife.

It is late when he arrives back to the great hall, and he’s tired. It is dark, the fire low, barely illuminating the large walls. Kalf goes to fill a mug of ale and comes back to sit next to the earl’s raised chair, his head in his hands. He takes a large drink, and resumes his moping.

“So, you are Kalf.” The voice comes out of the darkness and he looks around until his eyes settle on Earl Lothbrok, leaning against a back wall, his arms crossed. Ragnar is dressed in black nearly blending into the shadows, but his blue eyes reflect on what little light remains, making them appear to glow. It reminds Kalf of a wolf. The earl steps forward slowly.

Kalf takes another swig of ale.

 “You love my wife,” Ragnar says walking over to pour his own mug before coming to sit next to Kalf.

There’s no use in denying it. Kalf doesn’t answer.

“And she has great affection for you.”

At this Kalf looks at Ragnar. When he speaks, it is with sincerity, and sadness. “I have great…respect for Earl Lagertha,” he admits.

“I know you do. You have treated her better than I have.” It is an admission that leaves Kalf momentarily at a loss for words.

“Do not misunderstand me.  You are not _dead_ right now because of my wife. If you were anyone else I would gut you. I know what you have done with her. But I respect you, and I believe you are an intelligent man,” Ragnar moves to bend down to look Kalf in the eyes. His own are hard and steely.

“She wants you to become regent. But _I_ know that you are ambitious. And this--” he gestures around them with his hands, his fingers circling the air, “—is a very strong position to be in. So I will tell you now. Under your direction, Hedeby will continue to ally with Kattegat. And you will be in charge. All I ask is that you not betray my wife’s heart, and if you do…”

Ragnar leans in close, ensuring that Kalf understands him.

“I will personally kill you in the most public and humiliating way possible….unless she gets to you first. And if she does, you will wish for my way.”

Ragnar crosses his hands in the shape of a bird, and Kalf swallows more drink.

“Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Earl Lothbrok.”

“Good.”

The next day, Lagertha tells him the news. That he is to be regent. Ragnar is standing by her side unsmiling, but his eyes are gleaming with fire. He steps up to Kalf and grabs his hand before walking outside. Lagertha follows him, and Kalf watches them both.

“I will finish up here, and return in nine weeks,” she tells her husband, leaning in for a kiss. His hands reach down and grab her ass, pulling her close to him.

“I know. We’ll be waiting.”

They part and Lagertha watches as Ragnar rides off back to Kattegat. She smiles before going inside, where Kalf still waits.

They haven’t spoken to each other since her husband’s arrival several days before. But now, it is important that they do.

“Thank you, Kalf, for being there.” She goes to hug him, placing a soft kiss on his cheek, but he turns to meet her lips in a long, lingering kiss.

“I love you,” he tells her. “And I don’t expect for you to say it back.”

He leaves the great hall, and Lagertha exhales, not realizing she’s been holding her breath. While her broken heart is beginning to knit back together, another one has been ripped apart. And she feels terrible for being the one who did it.


	10. Chapter 10

**(Year 4-5/Bjorn is 17)**

**News of her arrival sweeps through Kattegat, and she is greeted by a large group of people as she enters. It feels good. When Lagertha arrives at the great hall, her husband is waiting for her outside, and so is Aslaug, and the children, and Bjorn. Her son is the first person to come and hug her, and she holds him tight.**

“You keep growing!” Lagertha exclaims tickling Bjorn just a little. He jumps and she laughs. “But you are still my son.”

“I am glad you are home, mother.”

“So formal,” she raises an eyebrow at him and he laughs. Ragnar comes to her and they embrace lovingly.

“My beautiful wife, come, I want to show you something.”

She follows him inside the great hall, and gasps when she sees the changes.

 The living quarters have been transformed, the hall expanded to make room for a second suite. There are three new rooms here, and a large bed. The other rooms are filled with their things, their clothes, and tools, and armor…everything. It’s all here.

Ragnar is standing back, waiting anxiously, hoping that what he has done is the right move.

He is rewarded with a kiss.

And as it deepens, the others take the cue and move off, heading back outside to leave Ragnar and Lagertha alone together.

.

.

King Horik arrives days later, with his fleet of ships, his wife and children.  But it is only Lagertha and her son waiting at the docks to greet him.

“Earl Ragnar is expecting another son at any moment,” she explains and Horik nods in understanding. A birth is always a great occasion. Especially a male child.

“When will we depart for Wessex?” He asks as they begin walking toward the great hall.

“When the time is right.” Bjorn weighs in.

“Then that is good. I have a new ally who will be arriving in the next few days.” Lagertha and Bjorn look at the king, and he smiles.

“It is a surprise!” He says, laughing.

“Will we _like_ this surprise?” Lagertha asks calmly.

The king shrugs his shoulders and his voice drops low and menacing.

“Remember, Lagertha, _I_ am King.”

She nods her head in acknowledgement, electing to remain silent on the subject. “Come, King Horik, we will show you to your quarters.”

.

.

Aslaug’s labor is as difficult the second time as it was the first, or more so Ragnar thinks pacing the room as Siggy assists. This time, Aslaug remains conscious, and after what seems like forever, he hears the telltale cry of new life.

Ivar.

He rushes to Aslaug’s side. She is completely wet from the strain of the labor, her eyes red from crying. But never has she looked more beautiful than in this moment, and as he brushes her hair away from her face he is reminded that she nearly died giving birth to this child the last time.  

“Thank you.”

It’s all he can give her. They look at the baby together, and Ragnar sees the legs, limp and dangling. But this time, he is not afraid. Aslaug looks at him, worry in her eyes, fearful about what her lover will say.

“Your prophecy is true,” he tells her. A tear rolls down her face. It has been a difficult pregnancy, a hard journey and her body feels…almost broken.

“I’m sorry, Ragnar.” He shushes her.

“You shouldn’t be. Ivar is perfect,” he tells her, stroking her hair and marveling at his newest son.

Leaning down to the baby he whispers to him.

“Welcome, my child. You will be great.”

Bjorn and his mother enter cautiously, hanging back as to not interfere. Ragnar sees them and welcomes them in. Bjorn takes Ivar into his arms, and Lagertha peels the blankets back to look at the baby.

“Oh,” she breathes, and Aslaug looks up, afraid of what Ragnar’s wife will say. It is the first time Lagertha has come for a birth and it is also Ragnar’s wife has looked upon one of her children with something other than pain on her face.  But her heart is stilled and a tired smile comes as Lagertha touches the soft legs, and strokes the tiny fingers.

“He is beautiful, Aslaug.”

“Thank you, Lagertha.” The two women share a smile between them, each recognizing the sacrifice and the strength it has taken to bring life into the world. Ivar is indeed beautiful with a dusting of dark hair contrasts with piercing blue eyes, inherited from his father.

Days later they are celebrating the birth of Ivar in the great hall when the doors open and their new “ally” is revealed.

Lagertha places one hand around Ragnar’s wrist to hold him down as Jarl Borg walks in.

“Do not worry, my wife,” he whispers in her ear. “I will behave myself.”

“Earl Ragnar!” Borg calls as he walks up to them in greeting. “And…you must be Lagertha,” he says in acknowledgment.

“Greetings Jarl Borg,” she says, guiding both men toward a group of chairs in the back of the hall. She catches a passing servant and arranges for ale to be brought.

“I will say I am surprised. I would have thought we would be enemies forever, Ragnar Lothbrok.” Borg takes a seat and accepts the mug that appears shortly after.  

“Well, I don’t hold grudges. After all, it was not a dispute caused by you, but by…someone else,” Lagertha’s eyes go to King Horik and come back. “It is just unfortunate we were all got caught in the middle.”

Ragnar  has slumped into a chair, sipping from his mug silently, content to let his wife speak.

“I don’t believe we have been formally introduced,” Borg says, sitting up and leaning in closer to her. “You are a shield-maiden, yes?”

“Yes. And I believe I killed several of your men. And you mine. But again, _I_ don’t take things personally.” She smiles and they share a laugh and a toast. Ragnar joins in. “Excuse me,” she gets up and kisses her husband gently before leaving the two men to talk.  

“Your wife…” Borg says watching her depart. “Is amazing. You are a fortunate man, Earl Ragnar. Two wives, many sons, fame and fortune. There are men who would covet all that you have.”

Ragnar leans in. “Are you one of those men, Jarl Borg?”

“I am,” he says. “And I am also the only one who will _admit_ it. _Why_ do you think King Horik has summoned me here?”

“He is our king,” Ragnar replies feigning ignorance. “And as king, it is his decision on who to summon. We have no say in the matter.”

They sit back, watching the crowd in the great hall. Lagertha makes her way through the crowd, smiling and making acknowledgements. She sees King Horik’s wife, standing slightly apart from the rest of the people and makes her way toward the queen.

“You are Brunhild,” she says in greeting, admiring the older woman. The queen is tall and willowy with dark hair and eyes. She is not a beautiful woman, but she is handsome, carrying the bearing of a warrior woman.  She too, is a shieldmaiden, and Brunhild is proud.

“And you are Lagertha,” she says.  “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“It is you who I dreamed of as a child.” It is spoken with sincerity and admiration. “When I was young, my father would tell me stories of you in battle,” Lagertha tells her as Brunhild nods wistfully.

 “I remember your father. I loved him, once.”

“He spoke of you often as well my queen.” The women smile, each aware that despite their mutual respect for one another, the time is coming when they may also have to kill each other.

“I admire you, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“And I respect you, Jarl Borg.”

The earls’ mugs are refilled with Ale and as they look out over the feast, both are aware that the other is fully prepared to murder him.

.

.

That night, Ragnar seeks out Floki, Torstein and Rollo, and gives them instructions. He goes back to a now empty hall and gently wakes his wife.

“Lagertha.”

“mmm” she rolls over to look at him.

“What?”

“It is time.” He goes next to wake Bjorn, who is snoring in the other room, and then Aslaug.

 “Ragnar?” She says sleepily.

“Get dressed.”

They come out of their respective chambers looking at each other and then at Ragnar as he waits, seated in his chair. They take their positions next to him. Soon the doors open and Rollo, Floki and Torstein enter, dragging a near-unconscious Jarl Borg between them and throwing the man at their feet.

Aslaug covers her mouth, but Lagertha’s face is set.

“Is he dead?” Aslaug asks looking down at Jarl Borg.

“Noo…” Ragnar says stepping down to kneel next to him.

“But he will soon be.”

Borg is dragged off in chains.

“Aslaug,” Ragnar calls as she retreats to her chambers. She turns to look at him. “Wake Siggy, and take the children up the mountain. I will send word eventually.” She nods and turns to leave. He turns to Lagertha.

“My wife--” She places a finger on his lips and moves back to their bedrooms, quickly changing out of her dress and into her armor. When she emerges, he knows they are ready.

“Bjorn. Go with Rollo and take care of Erlander. Lagertha…”

“I will take care of Brunhild.”

They touch foreheads and Ragnar takes hold of his eldest son.

“Tonight we will live, or we will die. But we will do them together, as a family,” he tells Bjorn. His son nods silently.

 They go their separate ways.

Lagertha comes across Brunhild shortly after in the guest chambers. The queen is already dressed for battle. They are both warriors. Both fighting for their homes, their families.

“I am sorry that I must kill you,” Lagertha tells her.

“Not unless I kill you first.”

The queen is fierce, and their struggle intense. They strike at each other with their swords, and when those fail, axes. Soon there are no longer shields, and Brunhild is quickly gaining the upper hand.  Lagertha takes a blow to the face, and another to the body and she falls, but quickly recovers. And like a snake striking, she kicks out, pulling the queen down to her.  Lagertha scrambles on top of Brunhild, wrapping her hands around the queen’s neck and squeezing, squeezing, not letting go, even as Brunhild thrashes and strikes her several times. Soon, the thrashing begins to slow, until Brunhild stops struggling, and lies dead. Lagertha gets up quickly, grabbing her shield and sword and goes to find her son.

Bjorn’s fight is easier. Erlander is no match for him. Bjorn dispatches the prince quickly with an axe to the throat. He sees Lagertha enter the chamber and quickly follows her out as a group of men come through. But he stops, hesitating. The young girls…

He turns to go back, but his mother takes hold of him, shaking her head. They must leave things as they will be.

“Ragnar has told them to be merciful,” she says. Bjorn follows her, but not before catching the sound of children’s screams.

The screams of his daughters wake Horik from his sleep in a separate house and he scrambles to pull on his shoes and grab his sword. But as soon as he steps out he is attacked and grabbed, dragged into the great hall.

It is dark. There is no fire. Barely any light except that which has managed to slip through the walls. Horik screams into the silence.

“Coward! Fool! How dare you attack me! My FAMILY! My children!” A creaking sound comes from somewhere near and he turns, swinging blindly. The first strike across his back sears his flesh. And looks up to see Lagertha standing before him, emerging from the darkness, his blood dripping from her sword. It is only now that he realizes this is the end.

He gets to his feet, and begins to walk toward her, but she turns her back on him. The next thing he feels is the blunt end of an axe across his chest. The strike has come from somewhere on his left. He looks—it is Bjorn. The young man stares at him as he falls again, and bends down to pick him up, pushing him toward a seated figure in the middle of the room. The figure stands.

“Ragnar Lothbrok,” Horik wheezes, blood beginning to form in his mouth.

 _This is what death feels like,_ he thinks, feeling life slowly drain from his body.

“So,” he coughs. “You want power.”

“No,” Ragnar says standing over him.

“I want _revenge_.”

The king laughs and the blood from his mouth flicks across Ragnar’s face. They study each other as Bjorn and Lagertha depart the great hall.

“Where are we going mother?” Bjorn whispers as they walk down the stairs.

“This is your father’s time. We must wait,” she says calmly.

Inside, Horik begins to breathe his last breaths. “It’s hard to find the moral high ground when we are all standing in the mud,” he says, says stretching his arms in surrender as Ragnar begins his attack. First with his head. Then his hands. Then a shield. Then a chair. And then his axe, until what remains of the king is nothing but bones and blood.

This is the cost of betrayal.

This is for the loss of a friend.

He has held in his rage for a long time, waiting for the opportunity. He has set back and accepted Horik’s flawed decisions, playing the role of the meek. But he will do so no longer.

Outside, Bjorn shivers as Ragnar’s yell reaches him. It is something he has never heard from his father, and it chills his bones. Lagertha squeezes his shoulder and goes back inside when the sounds quiet.

It is Lagertha who finds her husband sitting on the stairs in the great hall, staring blankly at what remains of the king.

It is Lagertha who coaxes him up silently, and walks him to their bedroom.

It is Lagertha who takes his clothes off and washes the gore from his hair, his face, his hands, and kisses all of him gently.

And it is Lagertha who crowns him king.

It has happened again.

But this time Lagertha will rule by his side, and this time she, not Aslaug, is his queen. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Their arrival on the shores of England has not gone unnoticed. But this time, many things are different. Lagertha is queen and Ragnar has forbade Bjorn and his girlfriend Porunn from coming with them. His son is angry about this,  but Ragnar knows Bjorn will understand quite soon.  There will be no…entanglements this time.**

**Yet one thing has remained the same. Ragnar does not trust King Ecbert. And he certainly doesn’t trust the king around his wife.**

They have been invited to dine with Ecbert upon their arrival. And they agree to meet that evening.

This gives them a few hours, and with that time, all Ragnar wants to do is enjoy his wife. So he does.

They slip off into the woods and find a quiet spot that becomes not-so-quiet soon after. Lagertha laughs as he picks her up and pushes her against a tree and pulls down his pants. She wraps her legs around his waist and he holds them in the position once he’s inside.  He takes her with urgency, her cries spurring  him on. Sex for them is not just physical. It’s emotional. It’s mental. It helps them focus, helps them plan. It keeps them together and bonded, strengthening the threads that hold them together. It’s a rush when she comes, channeling her pleasure into him, allowing Ragnar to release his own. And when they finally stumble to the ground, she lands on top of him, covering his face with kisses.

“Feel better now, husband?” She asks with a smile. “Very.” He says.

It’s a powerful thing, what they have. He doesn’t understand why he chose to give it up before. He looks at Lagertha on top of him and picks the twigs out of her hair as he kisses her. So many, many years they’ve had, and the love and desire between them remains as strong as the day they were first wed.

“We should go back to camp,” she says climbing to her feet.

Reluctantly he gets up as well, pulling up his pants.

They stumble back to where their warriors are. Floki sniggers at them and Rollo rolls his eyes as they go back into Ragnar’s tent. When they emerge again, they’re dressed properly. The sun is beginning to set as an envoy rides up to camp with two additional horses. Ragnar and Lagertha leave with them.

“Athelstan!” Lagertha exclaims when they arrive at the King’s villa and she sees her friend.

 The priest is standing outside, clothed in brown robes. He walks up to her horse as she climbs down and goes to greet him.

“Lagertha, it is so good to see you.” he smiles a wide smile, pleased to see his friends.

“It is Queen Lagertha now,” Ragnar says climbing down from his horse and coming to embrace the priest as well.

“Queen…King?” Athelstan looks back and forth between the two of them, unsure.

“Much has changed since you’ve been gone. I promise we will tell you everything.” Lagertha says.

 _Hopefully soon_ , he thinks as he looks at his friends, his former masters. When he had left Kattegat they were barely on speaking terms. But now as he leans in for another hug from Lagertha he catches an un-mistakable scent—something he had grown accustomed to during his years with them.

Sex.

It makes Athelstan flush a bit to remember the nights he lay awake listening to them make love or, if he was more frank about it—simply fuck. And he dares not close his eyes for he knows exactly what he will see, the two of them naked, inviting him into their bed.

He can tell they’ve managed to work through their estrangement. Ragnar stands close to his wife, all dark in his black leather armor with Lagertha as the light of the pair—wrapped up in brilliant purple, her brown leather armor fitted to her body, accentuating her figure, her hair as golden as the sun. They are both beautiful and charming when they want to be, but Athelstan knows despite their collective and individual attractiveness, they are both equally deadly. Lagertha’s preferred weapon has always been a sword and Ragnar, his axe. They each carry both as they stand together but not touching.

Their silent communication system has been restored and as he watches, they look at each other and then at him, asking a question. He know what it is, and his nod gives them the answer. It has been difficult, but he has been treated well.

It is good to see his friends like this. Athelstan has always admired the relationship between Ragnar and Lagertha—even when they were both just farmers there was love and respect, even when they fought each other like hell. Those fights often turned physical but they would also often give way to laughter, and then to love. They had, and have, a relationship built on equity and trust rooted in years of togetherness and understanding. It is the kind of relationship that, if it were not for his vows, he would like to have with a woman. Intimate. Almost spiritual in its strength.

Athelstan blinks at the last part—wondering when he considered such a matter a spiritual thing. He is still struggling to acclimate to the West after so long a time living with Ragnar and Lagertha and among the Pagans.

“Come,” he says. “I will show you inside. King Ecbert is waiting.”

They follow him into the villa and all are seated around a large table. Lagertha is next to her husband and at the other end of the table sits King Ecbert. Athelstan is seated to the left, and Ecbert’s son and his wife, Judith, are to the right. There’s a dark haired woman seated next to Athelstan and Ragnar recognizes her—Kwinthrith. Queen Kwinthrith of Mercia. She eyes him and licks her lips.

So, he thinks, they are going down this path again.

 “We meet as equals King Ragnar,” Ecbert says, standing in greeting.

“Equals, yes. So it seems,” he says keeping his face inscrutable.

Lagertha follows his lead. “We appreciate your invitation King Ecbert,” she says slowly in the language of the Saxons.  “We are looking forward to farming.”

 “Well…about that,” Ecbert begins. Lagertha and Ragnar exchange looks.

“Let me guess,” Ragnar says leaning in. “There’s a catch to our plan.”

“It appears that there are those in my country who are…opposed to having a pagan community here,” Ecbert tells them. “So I propose that in exchange for the land, some of your men will fight for Queen Kwinthrith.” He motions to the dark-haired woman seated next to Athelstan. She gives Ragnar a heated look but Ragnar does acknowledge it.  This time, he is working on a plan.

“Very well. I will fight.”

“And I will fight too.” Lagertha.

 He places a hand on her thigh and squeezes gently. She turns to him and they hold a silent conversation between themselves, using only their eyes.

“What are they doing?” Ecbert leans over to Athelstan as he watches Ragnar and Lagertha taking note note of her biting her bottom lip, and of Ragnar, motioning with his eyes only.

“They’re talking,” Athelstan whispers.

“But they’re not saying anything!”

“They don’t have to,” the priest replies.

 Finally, Lagertha speaks.

“I will stay to begin the settlement.”

Ecbert marvels. How they’ve managed to do this with no words, he does not understand. But he must admit, he is glad Lagertha will stay. He eyes her, reflecting on the way she looks naked. And those breasts…Ecbert is not above seducing another man’s wife.

The king catches him in a stare, and Ecbert gives Ragnar a blank look.

“Good!” he says clasping his hands. “Then it is agreed. King Ragnar’s forces will fight for Queen Kwinthrith. And we will depart at dawn.”

They all rise and say their goodnights.

Ragnar and Lagertha depart for their camp, but Athelstan stays behind.

“I don’t trust these Northmen, father,” Aethelwulf tells Ecbert. “The last time they were here, they tried to kill us.”

“Those were King Horik’s men, Prince Aethelwulf,” Athelstan interjects. “King Ragnar and his wife are different. They are not like other Northmen.”

“No," Ecbert muses aloud, “they are not. And this is what intrigues me.”

.

.

When they arrive back at camp, they are surrounded. Both Floki and Rollo raise objections when they are told of the deal that has been struck.

“And do you trust this King Ecbert?” Rollo asks his brother.

“No, we don’t.” Lagertha answers. “But as long as we have forces on the ground, he knows that we can destroy his villages and towns at any moment. And that is what will keep the settlement safe.”

“Well,” Rollo says, looking at his brother who is standing still, arms crossed, it seems you’ve already reached a decision. I am no farmer. So I will join the fight.”

“I will fight, too,” Floki says looking to Ragnar.

“I will still need people to help me with the settlement, Lagertha says.

“Take the women, and some of the older warriors with you,” Ragnar tells her. “This fight will not be long.”

“Rollo, Floki—gather the men. We will break camp at dawn.”

They spread the word as Ragnar and Lagertha retreat to their tent.

She sits on the ground, and Ragnar follows, pulling her against his chest and nuzzling her neck.

“I have a feeling Ecbert will betray us,” she says.

“I know he will.” Ragnar replies turning her face slightly to kiss her mouth.

 “mmm…How long do you think this will take?” She asks, tracing his lips with her tongue and tugging at his beard.

“Six weeks,” he says automatically, changing their position and lowering her to the ground before removing her clothes, and then his own.

It’s warm and their tent is covered with furs. But it’s not quite private. He doesn’t care as he takes his time planting kisses down her stomach and spreading her legs to put his face in between them. She gasps, her lips elevating to his mouth and he kisses her there, long and slow, applying his fingers as well as her hands grip his hair.

“What will I do without you for eight weeks?” She moans.

“Keep it wet for me, my wife,” he says, briefly coming up for air.

**.**

**.**

**Ecbert has been trying for three weeks to seduce Lagertha and it is not working. She is _laughing_ at him. Not _with_ him, _at_ him. He has brought her a new plow for the settlement for which she was grateful. But aside from a kiss on the cheek, he has gotten nothing. And he wants this woman more than he’s wanted any other woman in his life. But the queen continues to frustrate him.**

“Athelstan,” he asks finally after trying and getting nowhere. “Tell me about Lagertha. What manner of woman is this? She is unlike any I’ve seen before.”

“She is unlike many women you will ever meet,” Athelstan says. “She and Ragnar were just farmers when I met them, seven years ago. They have been through…a lot together. And they are strong. She is just as fierce a warrior as he is. I believe she is actually the stronger of the two. And to be quite honest with you, King Ecbert, many a man has died at the tip of her sword.”

“Wife, mother, warrior, queen, farmer…she is like a goddess of the Romans,” He says. “I want to invite her to the baths.”

And he does. And Lagertha accepts. She’s been in the fields helping to plant the first crops and the king’s baths were very nice before.

When she arrives at the villa, Athelstan is there to greet her.

“Queen Lagertha,” he begins. But she stops him. “You are family, Athelstan. You do not have to call me by a title. It feels…strange.”

“Lagertha,” he tells her, “the king fancies you.”

“I know he does,” she replies. “Do not worry Athelstan, I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. But I did want you to know in case he tries anything.”

She hugs him. “He’s smart enough not to risk a war.”

Prince Athelwulf has gone with Ragnar, leaving his wife Judith behind at the villa.

“Princess Judith,” Lagertha asks, approaching the young woman. “Yes, Queen Lagertha?” The women embrace warmly.

“I am glad I am not the only woman here,” she whispers in Judith’s ear, earning a soft smile and a laugh.

“Come, let me show you around the villa,” Ecbert says and they all follow as he points to marble  sculptures and busts, and drawings on the wall depicting the gods of the Romans. Lagertha fingers them, in awe of a culture that could create such magnificent art.

 “They are beautiful,” she says.

“But not as beautiful as you are, my queen.”

She looks at Ecbert, and laughs softly. “If one were to give all the wealth of one's house for love, it would be utterly scorned.”

Ecbert is stunned.

 Athelstan’s grin is wide and Judith covers her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

“ _You_ …know scripture?” He asks incredulously.

“I know many things, King Ecbert. I’ve had an excellent teacher,” Lagertha tells him, looking toward Athelstan. Pride is a sin. But for once, the priest allows himself to feel it.

“Well, shall we?” Ecbert says recovering from the shock and gesturing to the bath.

“I would be very pleased.” Lagertha slowly removing her clothes and slips inside the warm water.

Athelstan and Judith follow suit, climbing in as well. Ecbert follows.

 A servant brings wine.

Once they are settled, the king speaks again. “I would love to know more about you,” he says, attempting to drawing closer to Lagertha. His motion is stopped as she raises a leg and places her foot to his chest.

“I don’t believe that would be appropriate. And I can tell you that my _husband_ will not approve. I am not that kind of woman.” It is said with a hint of humor, but underneath is the threat. Ecbert backs away, content to admire her from a distance.

He thinks this is what the biblical Eve and Sheba and Rachel must looked like. The woman before him makes him seriously consider going Pagan.

.

.

**Torstein.**

**He had forgotten about Torstein. Watching his oldest friends suffer and die is devastating. Rollo and Floki look at him accusingly and he meets their gaze with a steely glare of his own—daring them to say something. He knows this is his fault. Every single one of his friends has died because of his actions. Now there is only Floki and his brother left. Ragnar did not recognize the signs before, but he does now. This is where he began to lose control. To let his emotions overpower his mind.**

**Arne, Leif and now Torstein. He remembers how they used to be when they were young, when his children were young and they would all gather in each other’s homes, drunk and singing songs. Loving and chasing women. Fighting and fucking. Youth is a blissful thing. But now there is no more song. He has managed to save Rollo thus far, and Athelstan too. But he has lost a dear, dear friend.**

It does not help that Queen Kwinthrith is very handsy and she does not take no for an answer. But he does allow her to treat his wound, remembering that she had, indeed, saved him from infection and likely saved his life—though the method is…unconventional, to put it mildly. As he lays on the ground and she overs over him, this remains a disturbingly surreal experience, and when she is finished Ragnar throws himself in the river to swim and clear his mind.

The deaths of those closest are always the hardest. Torstein was a good man, a good warrior. And he will be among the honored dead in Valhalla. Of this, Ragnar is certain.

They kill Kwinthrith’s uncle, and capture her brother. And Ragnar is itching to get back to rid himself of a queen with aggressive hands.

If ever there was a time for Rollo to step in… but his brother just keeps looking at him with evil amusement.

When they finally arrive back to the villa victorious, it is Lagertha who comes to greet him with a kiss, and never has it tasted so good.

“You’re armor…” she says reaching down to touch the tear in his leather. It is one that was made by her hands, a favorite that he has worn into battle many times. Although this will be its last.

“Eh, it is just a scratch,” he tells her, kissing her lips again.

“Come, there is food.” She holds his hand as they walk inside. The music is loud, the wine is liberal and the feast is great.

But he is not hungry for food.

Ragnar reaches around his wife, pulling her against him as he lays his head on her shoulder. They sway together off in a corner, watching the revelry.

“I missed you,” he says pressing up against her, his arms around her waist.

“I missed you, too, husband,” she says smiling over the scene in the hall.

“I want to be inside you…” he whispers into her ear. “ _Now_.” This is what he has ached for, and he has never been without for so long.

Her body gets hot and she feels the familiar pulse between her legs. It’s like this every time, and it never gets old. But she knows better than to give everyone a public show. Slowly she untangles herself from Ragnar to turn and face him, grabbing his beard and pulling his face down to hers. They touch foreheads and rub noses. It is quiet. Intimate. It’s a promise for later. He smiles against her lips as he holds her, keeping their bodies close together until he can will himself to go down.

“Whew,” he grins. “That would have been a problem.”

She laughs and punches him on the shoulder gently giving him a bump with her hips.

“A problem for you only, Ragnar….” The way she rolls the ‘r’ is like a cat’s purr. She smiles as he walks away to grab some food and some ale. He spots Athelstan over in a corner looking around nervously and it catches his attention. Ragnar slips into shadows, watching the priest dart behind a wall. Curious, he comes up close and leans in, hearing Athelstan’s voice, and then…a woman’s….Prince Athelwulf’s wife.

He can hear them whispering in hushed tones and what is said makes one eyebrow rise. Ragnar smiles to himself and moves off into the crowd, bookmarking the moment as something to come back to later on. Perhaps it is time to give Athelstan “the talk.”

“King Ragnar!”

The voice makes him roll his eyes as he turns to see Ecbert walking up to him.

“King Ecbert,” he says mustering a halfway decent grimace/grin.

“Come, come! Let us sit!” He says guiding them up the stairs and toward two chairs in back the room.

Ragnar sighs into his ale.

“So, did your wife tell you? The settlement is progressing well,” Ecbert says once they’re out of ears reach.

“Yes, she did. She is very pleased. She said you gave her a plow?”

“Ah yes. Every woman needs a good plow.”

“Some plows are better than others.”

“Indeed. She was very pleased with the equipment.” Ecbert looks straight ahead observing the feast. Ragnar takes a sip of ale, following his wife’s movements with his eyes. Lagertha is making her way through the crowd, smiling and greeting others as she goes. She moves with grace and elegance, as much a part of the party, yet somewhat slightly distant from it.

 “You know King Ecbert, my wife has a fairly large plow at home. She enjoys it very much. It drives very…deep,” he says, taking another drink of ale.

 They’re not talking about the farm tool. And it ends that part of the conversation.

The two men relax into their chairs, looking out over the party.

“Do you consider yourself a good man?” He asks casting a sidelong glance at Ecbert. There’s a pause as the Saxon king considers his answer.

“Yes, I think so… Do you consider yourself…a good man?”

“Oh, yes.” Ragnar takes a long drink before asking his next question.

“Are you corrupt?”

“Yes….are you?” He smirks at that. An honest and truthful answer.

“Very.” Ragnar slides off the chair, skimming the hall. He sees her dancing with Kwinthrith, and cuts in, sweeping Lagertha across the room and into a corner, the same corner Athelstan had been in earlier. It is more private here, but privacy is not the goal.

 He picks up his wife, putting her against the wall and kisses her feverishly. Her legs wrap around his hips.

“Are you still hungry, my love?” She asks huskily.

“Starving,” he says reaching down his pants to remove himself and slide inside her.

 It’s quick. And hard. And the force of his wife’s movements bring them both to the ground. She comes to land on top of him, moving her hips and grinding him into the floor. Ragnar turns his head to look at Ecbert and grins, a mean and spiteful grin. He knows his message is clear:  _Mine._

The eyes of two kings meet.

_._

_._

“So, you…and the princess?” Ragnar asks once he and Athelstan are alone. It is early morning, and most of the people who were at the party the night before are still asleep. Ragnar and Athelstan are out walking the grounds.

“How did you…? No. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know,” Athelstan says. Ragnar smiles.

“I know things,” he says tapping his head. ”And I have eyes as well. You should learn to be more discreet.”

“Well then to your answer...I am…conflicted about this.”

“What is there to be conflicted about? Do you love her?” Ragnar asks the question with such intensity it makes Athelstan stop to look at him. Ragnar’s eyes are bright with emotion and Athelstan takes a step back.

“Well? Do you love her?” Ragnar asks forcefully again.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“Then there is nothing to be conflicted about. You only get one life, Athelstan. One chance. And when you love something, you don’t let it go. You fight for it, with every breath, everything you have. You fight and you do not stop.”

Athelstan casts a long look at Ragnar. He has never heard his friend speak so passionately about love. It is the same sort of passion which Ragnar has often talked of sailing, of traveling, the same passion he has shown for learning.  These are the words of a person who has experienced love, and lost it, and found it again.

“It seems as if much has changed since I’ve been gone,” Athelstan replies.

“Much has changed, and yet not quite as much as you’d think.”

“What happened to King Horik?” He asks.

“I killed him.”

It’s stated so casually that Athelstan feels himself shudder. He had forgotten about _this_ Ragnar. The ruthless, cold, calculating Ragnar who will kill when the need arises. No grief, no guilt. His friend is still Viking. This duality in Ragnar has never ceased to amaze him. He is at one point a killer, and the next, a doting father and husband; a man who can slay kings and slaughter hundreds while still coming home to his wife and playing with his babies.

Ragnar’s ability to compartmentalize his decisions is something Athelstan can only dream of doing. And never have two friends been so different. Where Athelstan is unsure of who he is, Ragnar knows himself, and is comfortable and accepting of it. The priest prays for that kind of surety.

“It must have been for good reason, then,” he says, not-quite as casually as he’d like. Ragnar picks up on it.

“It was. So, what will you do? Will you come back with us, or will you stay?” Ragnar asks turning to him.

“I do not know,” Athelstan admits. He is still searching for answers. He has been searching for a long time now and there has been no voice, no reply, no relief for his aching soul.

“I believe you should stay,” Ragnar says, and there’s an emotion in his voice that Athelstan doesn’t quite get. He looks at his friend quizzically.

“You have a woman who you love. You are among your people. You _belong_ here, Athelstan.” Ragnar’s voice trails off, and the emotion is more raw. They have been good friends through the years. Athelstan has watched over his wife, his family. The priest has been privy to his most private thoughts. So many of his friends are gone. And while Ragnar would like nothing more for Athelstan to come back, he knows what awaits the priest should he return to Kattegat. Perhaps he can spare Athelstan’s life, and save the farming settlement in the process.

“Then I will stay,” Athelstan says. They embrace, and Ragnar gives him an affectionate slap on the back.

“We will return again. But I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to watch out for the settlement. These are my people. They want peace, and they want to farm. Watch out for them, Athelstan, and if anything happens, send word.”

“I will, Ragnar.”

“Thank you, my friend.” 


	12. Chapter 12

When the boats pull up to the docks, Bjorn, Porunn, Aslaug and the boys are there to greet them. And that night, by the fire in the great hall, Ragnar looks around and sees all of his family, united, together under one roof. This has been his dream. It is now his reality.  Lagertha and Aslaug, and all the children—Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, and Ivar. Bjorn stands with an announcement.

“Porunn is with child.”

Lagertha and Aslaug both smile.

Ragnar stands and embraces his son. “I am pleased.”

“Thank you, father.”

“Are you to be married?” Aslaug asks. Bjorn and Porunn look at each other and he reaches for her hand. “It is our wish,” he says.

“Then it is granted,” Lagertha tells her son, standing too, to embrace them both in a hug. 

The little ones, seeing the hugs, begin to feel left out.

“Father! Father! Tell us a story!!”

It is Hvitserk who is begging at Ragnar’s leg.

“Yes, Father, tell us a story,” Ubbe says, he and Sigurd looking up at their father. He is so tall, they think. And in their young minds, there is no one greater.

Ivar starts to fuss and Aslaug slips down her dress to feed him.  Ragnar thinks on it a moment, and settles into his chair. The children gather around at his feet. Siggy and Rollo are still here, and even Floki and Helga have opted to stay the night.

“Very well,” he says, lifting Hvitserk and Sigurd onto his lap. “I will tell you the story of a lowly farmer…who became a king…”

.

.

It has been a long time since she thought about a child. But the birth of their granddaughter, Siggy, has brought that yearning back, full force. Ragnar hasn’t spoken of it in a long time, and she knows he is content with his sons and that he is satisfied and loves her. But the problem is, Lagertha isn’t satisfied with herself. It is a wound still raw. And she can no longer deny it.

The hour is late and the children have been put to bed. Ragnar and Bjorn left earlier in the day to have “man time” and they have not yet returned, leaving her and Aslaug in the great hall. Aslaug is preparing for bed in her suite and the door is closed, allowing Lagertha to slip out quietly and makes her way into the town. She crisscrosses the different stalls and streets until she reaches her destination. The Seer. She knocks, knowing the hour is late, but hoping the old man is still awake.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come _Queen_ Lagertha,” he calls her name, and she enters.

 The house is dark and smells like the earth and fire, sulfur.  There are bones strung from the rafters, and candles glow dimly, offering just enough light for shadows.

“Sit,” he gestures to her.

The seer is shrouded in darkness, a black robe obscuring his face.

“It has been a long time,” he tells her. “You haven’t needed my advice before, why do you seek it now? It seems you and Ragnar have carved your own destiny,” he says.

She looks at him strangely. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” the seer says, waving her question away. “It is just the ramblings of an old man. Now, what brings you before me tonight?”

She weighs her question carefully, and then bracing herself for the answer, asks it.

“Tell me…will I ever bear another child?”

The seer is silent a long while studying her. He weighs whether to tell her the truth.

 “I do not see another child, no matter how far I look,” he says finally.

The wound on her heart burst opens, and she feels the hurt and the pain acutely. Her breath catches in her throat and there is heat behind her eyes. It is her fear, confirmed. That no, she will never have another child. She will never carry her husband’s seed.

Lagertha gets up to leave, and the seer extends his hand to her. She licks his palm before hastily leaving to go outside, where the cool air feels like a slap across the face.

Barren. She is completely barren. It explains so much, but yet provides no comfort at all. Perhaps it was better that she did not know. They had tried so hard for years after Gyda. Ten long years and then a surprise that ended in a loss. It was so obvious.  But she hadn’t wanted to confront the truth. Now that she has, she is devastated.

Slowly she makes her way home, trying to calm herself and regain control over the tempest that roils within her. She feels ill.

 Ragnar and Bjorn are still gone. It is quiet in the hall as Lagertha takes off her cloak and removes her dress, climbing into bed. The furs smell like Ragnar and she wraps them around herself for warmth, for comfort. There’s a small fire burning in the hearth and the room is hot, but she is freezing. She was 17 when Bjorn was born, 19 when Gyda arrived, and 28 when she miscarried their son and their daughter died.

Aslaug arrived three days before her 29th year.

And she will be 35 tomorrow. It is so completely unrealistic to even hold out the tiniest bit of hope—and it was foolish, she knew…but a part of her never stopped believing she would have another baby with her husband. Perhaps Siggy is that child.  Their blood runs through their son, and through him, Siggy too. Lagertha is struggling to accept that she must be content with that.

The door to the room opens and Ragnar enters and begins to undress.  She stays where she is as he climbs into bed beside her, pulling her into his arms.

“I love you,” he whispers, and though he’s said it so many times before, this time the words cause a tear to fall. And then another. She’s trying to stay quiet, but Ragnar feels her body shake, and he is concerned.

“My wife, what’s wrong?”

She pushes away from him, and buries her face in a pillow, the tears falling hard and fast now.

“Talk to me. Tell me what is the matter.” He is alarmed by her silence, and even more worried by her tears. Lagertha does not cry, and he can count t to kneel down beside her, moving her hair out of her face. He is greeted with puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

“I went to the seer tonight.” She says sitting up.

He is quiet, moving only to sit on the bed beside her.

“I…wanted to know…if… I could have another child.”

Ragnar feels his heart fall to his stomach. He knows what it coming, what the answer is. He has been aware of this a long time now, and he has hoped that Lagertha would never learn the truth. But now she does, and in her face he sees nothing but despair.

“He said no…” it’s a whisper.

Like instinct he reaches out to her, rocking her gently as she sobs against his chest.

The seer. Ragnar’s jaw clenches. He has purposefully avoided the seer, refusing to be influenced by the mind games of an old man. But his wife does not know what he does, and he has never told her, and never will. 

“Shhh…” he says, stroking her hair.  

“It’s okay. It will be okay. I’m not leaving you. I am not going anywhere.”

He keeps her in his arms until she cries herself to sleep. It’s a rare moment of weakness and only he is allowed to see it.  Yet while Lagertha is devastated, Ragnar believes the seer does not have the final say on this matter. He knows she will become pregnant again. And when she does, it will be his child, and he is determined that the baby will live.


	13. Chapter 13

**It is a year to the day when word arrives from England. The settlement is Wessex has been destroyed. Ragnar had hoped that in leaving Athelstan behind Ecbert would think twice about destroying the little village. Perhaps the king was right the last time, when he called it the right idea at the wrong time. But Ragnar will not allow the destruction of the settlement to go unpunished again. This time, he will allow the families to avenge their loved ones, and he will send the Christians to meet their God and their devil.**

There are three separate raiding parties, and the strike will be fast. Lagertha and Bjorn, Floki and Rollo are in charge of each one.

His wife and son will take Northumbria. He and Rollo will strike the villages in Wessex. Floki will attack Mercia. They will make Ecbert and his allies suffer.  Ragnar has timed the attack so they will arrive in the night, using the cover of darkness to shroud their arrivals. The orders are simple. Burn everything and return immediately to the boats. They are not there to raid. They are there for revenge.

Lagertha is first to arrive with her fleet. They come ashore quietly, moving quickly up the beach. She has been here before, and recognizes the village they are about to attack. She signals to her son and Bjorn nods.

The warriors begin their raid.

Soon, houses are burning and there are people running everywhere. There is no forgiveness. No mercy. She walks calmly through the village the flames at her back as she swings her sword, striking down the few who try to defend themselves. Soon she is covered in blood. Already the familiar tingle has started in her body, relieving her of her troubles. It has always been this way. The excitement of fight washing away all other things.

It’s a good release. A powerful one. She comes to stand in front of a church and looks at it a moment before kicking down the door.

 The holy men inside are shocked, but they become bolder when they realize she is a woman. One begins to curse at her, and call her a witch.

Like lightening she throws her axe, impaling it in the priest’s skill.

 The others cower.

“Now,” she says in their language. “Who would like to be next? She smiles, a bloody smile, and they are terrified.

.

.

Ragnar and Rollo arrive several miles South of Wessex. Ragnar has taken care to ensure he does not land at the same place twice. They slip ashore and walk until they come across a small village and he blows the horn.

 There are screams all around as his men run through, razing and looting everything. Ragnar stands back on the hillside watching dispassionately as houses are burned and women, children and old men are slaughtered.  

Ecbert had given his word. And he has gone back on it. The flames grow larger, reflecting in Ragnar’s eyes. In the fire he sees justice.  One wrong satisfied by another.

.

.

Floki laughs in glee and dances in the street as the fires rage around him. There are hundreds of people slaughtered and bleeding on the ground in Mercia. It is glorious. A glorious tribute to the gods.

 “Burn Christians!” He shouts into the wind.

“Burn in the hell with your God!”

By morning, they are gone. Leaving ash and death in their wake.

.

.

“King Ecbert!”

Athelwulf runs into the hall breathless, days later.

“What is it?”

Villages—up and down the coast—from Northumbria to Mercia. They’ve been attacked and burned.

Ecbert stands up.

“What do you mean? How many people?

“Several hundred slaughtered. It was the Northmen, father.  They only left a few alive. Here is a priest from Northumbria.”

The doors open again, and a small man, shaking all over, walks in. His white robes are dirty, and covered in dirt and blood.

“A woman…” he says, “a witch. With golden hair, her face stained red.”

 Ecberts face drains of color, and he staggers backward, shaken deeply. He knows exactly the woman the priest speaks of.

“Lagertha…and Ragnar,” he says covering his mouth and starting to pace. It is suddenly very hot and he perspires, feeling for the first time, that he has lost control. He has underestimated them, underestimated their fury, their wrath and his people have died for it. For his mistake.

“God save England,” Ecbert says quietly.

“God save England,” Aethelwulf and the guards repeat, the words unsure. Fragile.

It takes the king several days to collect himself, to absord the magnitude of what has occurred. However, once he’s taken it all end, Ecbert knows next what he must do.

“Go find Athelstan,” he tells his son. “Bring him here.”

It is a shame, really, Ecbert thinks. He liked Ragnar and Lagertha, they had proven to be intellectual equals, and perhaps in a different time, they could all have been friends. It certainly did not have to end like this.

When Athelwulf comes back, he has the priest in tow.

“You asked to see me, King Ecbert?” Athelstan says.

“Yes, Athelstan. I am sure you are aware of the raids that have taken place on our lands.”

“I had heard, yes.”

The king humms under his breath rising from his chair to approach the monk.

“I wonder how the Northmen learned their settlement was destroyed? I am sure there were no survivors.” He leans in close.

“There must have been, my Lord.” Athelstan is standing his ground, refusing to be intimidated.

“I want you to know, Athelstan, how much I respect your friends, and how much I respect you,” Ecbert begins to circle slowly.  “And so with sadness, and regret, I am sorry, but you must die.”

He stops, raising one hand.

Two guards step forward and grab Athelstan’s arms, pushing the monk to his knees. He keeps his head up, glaring at Ecbert, but remaining silent.

His eyes are accusing, and Ecbert stares at him, accepting the punishment for what he is about to do. It is Aethelwulf who brings the sword down and Athelstan’s body falls forward, lifeless.

It is a moment that will haunt the king for the rest of his life, but it must be done in order to protect his lands.

Ecbert goes to the body and removes the gold cross around Athelstan’s neck, and with his knife, takes a lock of the priest’s hair. He passes both to a guard.

“Send word to the Northmen.” He says.

“This is not over.”

**-xxx-**

The winter is extremely cold, the ice, unusually thick. But they are warm. Bjorn and Porunn have come down from the mountain, the temperatures there unbearable. And again, Ragnar has his family together under a single roof. The fires aren’t allowed to go out and he uses this time to enjoy his family, love on his children and his granddaughter and prepare for their next raid.

Paris.

“What do you know of Paris?” He asks his wife.

“Only what Ecbert told me,” she says coming to sit beside him in front of the hearth in the great hall. “It lies further than England, ruled by the Frankish people. It is an ancient city, from the time before kings,” she says.

“Athelstan told me about it too,” he says. “I want to go there. To see it. To conquer it.”

She smiles.

 “So we are to raid Paris in the Spring?”

“Yes. And we will need Hedeby. When the ice clears, you should send word.”

They kiss softly by firelight.

“I miss Athelstan,” Lagertha says, resting her head on Ragnar’s shoulder as they stare into the fire.

“Me too. But his staying was for the best.”

She looks up at him, searching.

“How do you know?”

He smiles at her. “The Gods told me.”

Ah. The gods.

“I believe you, son of Odin.”

They kiss again. He deepens it and lifts her up on to a table. 

She grins at him and they touch foreheads, noses too, as he starts to undress her.

.

.

Aslaug has put the children to bed, and she walks out into the great hall, but stops when she sees Ragnar and Lagertha. She watches as they kiss by the fire, and she watches as those kisses begin to turn to something else. She leaves as their passion for each other takes over. 

It has gotten better, she won’t deny that. And having a household to run has kept her busy. But now she sleeps by herself. Ragnar has done what she asked of him, he has left her alone. Four sons in almost as many years, and he is done with her.

The children can provide only so much. And there are other things she is longing for, like romantic love, and intimacy and…passion.

With Lagertha's presence, the princess realizes Ragnar never gave her any of those things.

Ragnar has Lagertha, and Lagertha has him. Aslaug has no one, and the loneliness, she thinks, is slowly killing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks,
> 
> I've got two questions I'd like some input on. I am writing a Modern AU Rag/Lag fic and I am curious about what possible plotlines people want to see. Right now, Rag/Lag are actors, but they could be other things as well. I am also curious about how people feel about RPF's (Real Person Fics)? I'm a little squicky on them because well...people aren't there characters. But I am also interested in giving one a try. Suggestions are very welcome. Thank you!


	14. Chapter 14

**Kalf is in training when word arrives from Kattegat about a new raid. A place called Paris. He has never heard of such a place. But he is being summoned to the home of Lagertha…and Ragnar. Not a day has passed since she left Hedeby that he hasn’t thought about her.  There have been many women in his bed, but none have brought him what he gets only in his dreams.**

The journey takes three days and Kalf uses that time to prepare himself to see her. He does not know how or what he will feel. But the emotion manifests itself soon enough when he enters the great hall and she is right there, resplendent in a silver gown, the white furs adorning her neck and her hair braided up. Long earrings with shiny stones dangle from her ears as she sits, perched regally in the queen’s chair.

Lagertha is ephemeral, and he almost starts to salivate as he remembers what she tastes like and how she feels and how he wants to have her that way, and in more ways, again. Kalf is drawn to this woman. He loves her more than anyone else in his life.

Lagertha steps down as Kalf enters the hall, smiling and reaching out to him to place a chaste kiss on both of his cheeks.

“I am pleased to see you.”

He bows to her.

“Queen Lagertha.”

“Come, Ragnar is around here somewhere.”

He stiffens at this and she notices.

“Kalf…”

“Please don’t.” He says, and he means it. “I will wait here.”

Her eyes are sad as she leaves him and goes to find her husband. Eventually she hunts him down, outside in the stables. He and Bjorn are trying to turn a foal that has gotten stuck in its mother.

“Kalf is here,” she tells him and he gets up grabbing a rag and wiping down his hands.

“Bjorn, can you finish?” He asks his son. “Yes, father. We’re almost there.”

 The mare whinnies and snorts, her discomfort apparent. The poor thing is in pain, and Lagertha puts a hand on her head to comfort the animal. She knows what a difficult labor looks and feels like.

Ragnar goes inside and washes himself in the water bowl. He’s dressed only in an old shirt and britches, the clothing of a farmer, not a king.

He walks into the hall, Lagertha by his side.

“Kalf,” he says in greeting.

“King Ragnar.” Kalf stands and bows.

They move toward the table in the middle of the room and take seats.

“How is Hedeby?” Lagertha asks.

“It is fine. The fur season has been good, and we have boats coming in now as far away as Riga. Some of the families are growing a bit restless however and there have been some disputes that have become quite…complicated.”

There’s more he doesn’t say. Like how hard it has become to govern Hedeby because he is not a legitimate earl, just a stand-in. How there has already been at least one attempt to overthrow him. Ragnar interrupts the small talk.

“We are going to Paris and we will need men. Can you gather your forces?”

“Yes, King Ragnar. But…what is Paris?”

They explain to him. Someplace further west than England. A new land.

“I can be back before the next full moon.”

It is agreed. That is when they will set sail. Kalf departs the next morning and Lagertha sees him off. Ragnar comes up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist as they watch him leave.

“He still loves you,” Ragnar tells her.

“I know,” she says.

“Do you love him?” After it is out, he regrets asking the question. He does not know what has made him ask, and he tenses, preparing himself for her eventual answer.

His wife turns to face him and grabs his beard, pulling him down into a long kiss.

 “I do,” she says, looking into her husband’s clear eyes. “But my heart has always belonged to you.”

They do not, and never have, lied to each other. Honesty has always been their only rule, no matter how brutal that truth may be. Ragnar closes his eyes as he clutches her tightly.

Another kiss, soft and reassuring. Lagertha lays her head on his chest. “It saddens me to know I have hurt him…and I am well aware that if things had turned out differently, I would _be_ him.”

He studies his wife intently and realizes how correct she is in her assessment.

In this life, Kalf is Lagertha.

 

-xxx-

The seer’s words loom in his mind as their boats make their way up river.

_Not the living, but the dead will conquer Paris._

But that was then, and things were different. This time, they will be more strategic.

Ragnar and Lagertha’s forces make camp up river, and he sends Rollo and Floki on foot to act as scouts, searching for weaknesses in the city’s defenses.

When they return, the word is grim.

There is only one entrance, a heavily guarded gate, and the city sits on an island in the middle of the river. Its walls stretch to the sky, and there are lookout positions stationed all around.

Last time they had tried to attack the city from the walls in the daylight, and the death toll was great. Bjorn had nearly died, and he almost did too.

Ragnar thinks through each scenario one-by-one, the traps they had encountered, what worked, what didn’t.  It must be a night attack, he decides. Lagertha’s forces had gotten the closest to breaching the defenses at night. And they must get through the gate, which is riddled with deadly obstacles.

“Lagertha come here,” he beckons for her and she comes, removing her sword from her hip to squat down next to him.

He draws in the dirt, laying out his plan to her. She frowns a moment and shakes her head.

“It is good, however…I foresee a problem—there are still guards present, and our people will be seen.”

“What is your alternative?”

“What if we enter slowly,” she says, her fingers drawing lines in the dirt, cutting through his, “come in with the traders through the bridges, a…disguise?”

Disguise is a new concept. They have always attacked openly.

He thinks about it a moment, nodding slowly.  “They could slip in a few at a time throughout the day. Wait until nightfall.”

She nods. “What about weapons?”

“We send in the best warriors. The ones who have no need of them,” Ragnar says. “They can take out the guards at the bridge, and gain access to the ones inside—clear out the forces. It must be quick. There can be no mistakes.”

Lagertha nods curtly and stands, brushing the dirt off her hands. “I will lead the attack. And I will tell Kalf to choose his best warriors. You will assemble ours.”

Ragnar notes the look on her face. He has always fought out of necessity, but Lagertha lives for battle. And in this, she is resolved and determined. Yet he is distinctly uncomfortable. When they had decided these things before--a lifetime ago--she was no longer his wife, and he had fooled himself into believing he did not care. He had tricked himself so greatly that when she did eventually fall in battle that, coupled with the bitterness of his defeat, had broken him to the point that he could not bear the idea she could die, and he had simply chosen to leave.

Now he is not entirely sure he wants Lagertha in this. But his wife is strong, and she is powerful and more capable than the majority of the other warriors here.  She is also queen, and he respects her too much to give his own insecurity a voice.

“I will be going with you,” Ragnar stands abruptly and she cuts her eyes at him. He knows immediately she can tell his thoughts. One hand comes to rest on his chest.

“We both cannot go, husband.” It is calm. “One of us must live.”

They look at each other, and Ragnar begins to realize this is the first time he truly does not know how something will end. It is the first time he has ever contemplated that Lagertha could die before he does. The emotion is overwhelming and he grabs his wife and kisses her hard. Want and desire taking over.

They come up just long enough to slip into their tent and undress, and when they join again, he speaks to her body and her heart. His love echoes inside her, but this time feels far different from the others. It’s as if a piece of him has slipped inside her too, and as they come down from their lovemaking they stare at each other, unsure of what has just happened.

_._

_._

_Frigg smiles as Odin walks into the great hall. “Husband, have you reached a decision?”_

_Freya is present and smiling as well. Odin nods solemnly at the two of them.  “Yes. I will grant them one more.”_

_Frigg and Freya embrace. For Freya, it is a relief. It had nearly broken her to take back the last child Ragnar had placed within Lagertha during his previous life. However, she now understands why it was done. Ragnar had been undeserving of such a gift from his ex-wife, and it was a slight meant for him, not her. Still, Freya remembers how Lagertha had cried over the loss, her second. For her, it was the last chance to be with her husband.  But Odin had demanded the child remain unborn, and Freya had to obey._

_“They will be overjoyed,” Frigg says embracing her husband. “I am pleased with Ragnar’s choices.”_

_“As am I, my wife.” Odin says. “As are all of us.”_

.

.

Ragnar watches from the forests as his wife and Kalf are first to pass through the Paris gates, draped in long cloaks.  They are among a large group of people. Slowly, more of his warriors go in the same fashion, disguised among the masses.

Nightfall soon comes, and he begins to pace back and forth anxiously on the hill, chewing his fingernails as he waits for a signal.

Rollo comes up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright, brother?” It has been a long time since Rollo was concerned about his welfare.

“No,” he says honestly. “I am not alright. My wife…” Ragnar’s voice breaks and Rollo looks at him a moment, trying and failing to mask his own feelings. Their faces are identical in this moment.  They are brothers, and they have, and continue to love, the same woman.

It dawns on him that he is unsure of where Rollo’s loyalty lies. Last time in Paris, Rollo had betrayed them all.  But before he can dwell on it further, the signal fire from the bridge is lit.

They have been successful.

Ragnar grabs his axes and sounds the horn and he and his men take off at a run toward the gates. They charge under the cover of night, crossing the bridge and entering the tunnel, and when they emerge on the other side, the city of Paris looks like a mirage in front of him, its size and scale almost unfathomable. He leads the men on and soon they come under fire from all sides, and he finds himself tearing through soldiers as he fights his way through the storm. The battle is heated as men from both sides begin to fall and yet he pushes on--ducking blows and dodging arrows. Ragnar quickly comes to the realization he will not take Paris, but he has vowed to leave a lasting scar on the city.

“Burn!” He yells.

The fires begin as people start running from their homes and become human shields for the Northmen who sack the houses and the shops, taking for plunder, for fame and for riches. He sees Rollo fighting a Frankish soldier, snapping his neck. And he sees Floki, ramming a sword into another soldiers back.

But in the chaos around him, he does not see Lagertha. Or Bjorn. And he hasn’t seen them since the raids began. A sword comes perilously close to his head and he ducks, coming up to swing his axe with both hands, the blood splashing across his face.

 “Sound the horns!” He yells as he begins to fight his way backward toward the gates. His warriors take heed, and they put up a shield wall and start working their way out of Paris under heavy fire.

 As they fall back he still cannot find his wife, or his son. And when they finally regroup at camp he is searching frantically for them everywhere.

“King Ragnar! King Ragnar, come quickly!” A woman is calling him and he runs her way in panic, following her into a tent, where he sees his son alive, but his wife…

Lagertha is lying on her stomach, completely unconscious and he falls to his knees beside her, trying to breathe through the searing pain that tears at him.

“Is she…” He is too afraid to speak the words.

“Alive? Yes. And she will live,” the healer tells him. “We removed an arrow from her back.”

Bjorn is pacing the tent anxiously and when he sees his father he comes, his head lowered in shame. “It is my fault father,” he says. “Mother was fighting when one of their archers shot from the wall, I was able to block two of them in the shield, but the third…” Bjorn’s chin trembles and Ragnar grabs him and pulls him into his arms tightly, squeezing as he tries to temper his own tears. He bites his bottom lip hard and inhales sharply. 

His son is still a young man, and though brave, Ragnar knows he is not ready to lose a parent, let alone his mother.

“It is not your fault Bjorn. You fought bravely. And you tried to protect your mother, as you should.” He stands back, looking at his son. “I am proud of you.”  

Bjorn steps back. “It was Kalf who got her to safety,” he says, nodding, and grateful for the acknowledgement.  Ragnar looks at him a long moment before speaking.

“I understand.”

Bjorn goes away. But Ragnar will stay here tonight, waiting for Lagertha to wake up. He settles on the ground beside her makeshift bed drawing his legs up. There will be no sleep this evening. 

Lagertha’s chest rises and falls evenly as he watches her, tracing the soft lines of her face, her eyes, her cheeks, lips and chin with his finger.

The tent opens again and Kalf enters. He stops when he sees Ragnar. The two men stare at each other and Ragnar rises to his feet.

 “She will live,” the king tells his wife’s lover.

The depth of Kalf’s devotion is visible, and Ragnar cannot fault the other man for his feelings. In his past life, this moment would be reversed, and it would be Bjorn lying there, and Kalf would be doing Ragnar’s job, comforting Lagertha.  It is yet another of the gods’ strange twists, and he recognizes this as well.

The other man nods curtly and turns to leave.

“Kalf.”

He stops, but does not turn back around.  “Yes, King Ragnar?”

“You saved my wife. I thank you for it.” He has swallowed his pride to make the admission. Each moment a lesson in humility. Pride had gotten the better of him last time.

Kalf just nods and leaves.

Outside the singing has started and the drums begin to beat as the warriors celebrate. They have successfully sacked Paris. It is the furthest their people have ever gone. Their greatest achievement.

And as soon as his wife is able, they will travel home in victory. But for Ragnar it is tinged. Lagertha almost died today, and he was powerless to save her.


	15. Chapter 15

**It’s always worse when they’re gone. At least when Ragnar and Lagertha are here, there are more distractions, more people around, more things to do. But when the raids come, Kattegat becomes almost like a shell. And they have been gone nearly three months so far, taking most of the city with them.**

The great hall is empty and it echoes in her body and her heart as she sleeps alone, save for the children. But her children cannot provide her the comfort that she craves. And some nights, she finds herself fantasizing about a man who can. Sometimes, that man is Ragnar, but sometimes he is not. And the longer he is away, the more his face begins to fade, and that of another takes his place.

Aslaug begins to dream of a man with long dark hair and a slender face with kind eyes, mysterious. He comes with open arms and she sees herself in them, and him in her, and she wakes up sweating, yet feeling cold.

She is working her loom with Siggy and Helga one evening when the doors to the great hall open and she turns…and gasps.

It is the man in her dreams.

Harbard, he tells them, is his name. A traveler. A story teller. Aslaug is transfixed by Hardbard and his stories. He makes her feel as if he is speaking only for her benefit and slowly the days begin to blur together, until she sees and thinks only of Harbard.

Siggy is speaking to her but she cannot hear. Only Harbard’s words matter. And so she goes with him, and when his pants drop and she sees him, she is shocked, and she is frightened. But as he lays her down and spreads her legs, he comforts her, telling her to relax...and to give him her pain. There is so much of it to give. Years of disappointment, abandonment, jealousy and sadness. Years of being used and unloved, a vessel for breeding only. With Harbard, she learns what true passion is, what it feels like—how it rings through her body and into her heart and her mind.

She gives herself to him freely and he is unlike anything or anyone she’s ever felt before. His name is on her lips and her body tingles as she comes for Harbard, releasing to him years of hurt, frustration and anger. He overwhelms her with his body and his heart, and she wants to feel him again and again. So she does.

This, Alsaug thinks, must surely be love. This is what it feels like to be in love.

Harbard fills her days, and her heart and her body.  And she thinks she could run away with him, be with him and be loved by him.

But the world is cruel. And reality brings her down hard and fast when her lover comes to the great hall, carrying her small sons, Ubbe and Hvitserk, in his arms.  They are limp on his shoulders and soaking wet.

 She panics.

“What happened?!” Aslaug screams as she grabs her children and takes them to the fire to warm their bodies. They are breathing but unconscious.

“They fell through the ice,” he says. “And I am sorry to tell you, but your friend Siggy is dead.”

Dead. Siggy is dead.

Her wail is that of a wounded animal, the wail of a troubled soul.

Aslaug cries over her children as she tries frantically to warm them praying fervently to the gods to save their lives. Eventually they open their eyes, looking at her.

“Where have you been, mother?”

It is Ubbe. His voice is weak, and he wheezes the words. It cuts her, bringing sorrow and shame.

“I’m here now,” she tells them, stroking their hair and wrapping them up in blankets. She is grieved with the knowledge that while she was having sex with Harbard, her children nearly died.

The boys fall ill with fever, and every day she and Helga nurse them. And every day Aslaug prays to the gods for favor and for forgiveness.

Harbard disappears just as suddenly as he came. And the princess is left alone in a cold home, with two sick children, and a broken heart.

At least Helga is still there.

Helga.

Floki’s wife has become her companion, soothing her as much as the younger woman can. And it is to Helga to whom Aslaug confides, because as the days pass, and her children improve, she has realized something else…

“I have missed my time,” she says quietly. The coal on Helga’s eyes make them look bigger and Aslaug can see her reflection in them. She looks tired, haggard…anxious.

“What will you do? Do you know for sure that you are…?”

Aslaug shakes her head. “I do not,” and that is what disturbs her. She has always known immediately. But she is unsure now. “It has only been a few days, but if I am, Ragnar…”

She is fearful of what he will do. Ragnar maintains a steady calm. But underneath it, she knows those seas are troubled and she has lived with him long enough to know that he is capable of unmitigated rage. The father of her children is a patient man, and he holds grudges. Aslaug has never been on the receiving end of it, but she has witnessed it.

Her lover has never been intentionally cruel just…neglectful. Looking back Aslaug believes her first mistake was to encourage Ragnar to take Lagertha to England. Upon their return she knew that he had slept with his wife.  It was in the way he walked, the way he got close to Lagertha, the way he looked at her with love and longing.  Still Aslaug ignored it because in the end, Ragnar came home and he kept coming home and Lagertha kept going away.

Until the one night he didn’t. And one night became two. And three, until it became a habit and he started spending his days in the hall and his nights with his wife and his son at the mountain house. Ragnar left Aslaug after England, and he never come back, except to make Ivar.

They had argued that day. But his will was stronger than hers. It was the single most humiliating moment of her life when she finally came to understand that he was only using her. _Used_ was the only word she could think of to describe the experience. She had grown so angry by that time that she had tried to force him into making a choice—his wife, or her. But even as she said the words she knew it was useless, and as a condition of granting him one more child, she had made him swear to never touch her again.

 _That_ was her second mistake.

Ragnar never makes promises he does not keep.

He had moved on top of her silently, not bothering to take off his clothes her hers. His body was in motion, his mind elsewhere. There were no kisses, no soft nuzzles, no affection whatsoever. There was no touch other than where they were joined. It was cold and it was silent. Mechanical. She had just laid there, waiting for it to be over. There was no pleasure and perhaps for him there never had been, but in the past he had been concerned enough for her feelings to make sure she enjoyed herself.  The last time though, it was clear he was done caring, or done faking it. Their first three sons had come so easily—because Aslaug had fooled herself into believing Ragnar loved her.

He left immediately afterward, but for the first time in months, he returned the same night. She knew exactly why—Lagertha had rejected him and she had left the very next day.

When Aslaug told him she was pregnant again, Ragnar was..pleased. It broke him out of his moping. He became sweet, affectionate, caring and tender toward her again. He touched her gently and nursed her through a difficult pregnancy. All of her emptiness disappeared and for 10 months their relationship was better than even the best of times.  Never had she felt so close to Ragnar and so loved by him. And she thought that maybe, with Lagertha gone, they would finally be together.

She had only once asked about the construction in the hall, and he’d avoided answering, saying only it was for the whole family.  When things began coming into the new rooms she asked again and he’d just looked at her.

The new bed was a clear sign.

 His week-long disappearance to Hedeby, the second.

Lagertha’s return marked the end.

Aslaug remembers the day she came back. The princess had expected Ragnar’s wife to go back to the mountain, but she did not. She came home to the great call, and the moment Lagertha stepped through the door reminded Aslaug that she was not Ragnar’s wife. Just his mistress. And that she was in a home that had never belonged to her with a man that did not belong to her either. Lagertha had simply allowed Aslaug to rent them both, and she had come back to reclaim what was hers.

Neither Ragnar nor Lagertha had not meant to be intentionally cruel, and she had hit her own hurt under a smile, but the truth was she lay awake that night, tortured by the sound of Ragnar and Lagertha’s lovemaking. Never had he spoken such words to her, never had he _moaned_ for her, _begged_ for her, or for that matter _come_ for her the way he did with his wife. That night alone dashed her dreams. She could no longer pretend.

Ivar is now three.

It has been three years since Ragnar warmed her bed, or even touched her. And she feels the loss deeply. She misses his physical presence and she mourns the loss of his affections, the loss of his body against hers.

Yes, she told him to never touch her again. But after years of sleeping alone with only children for comfort she had started to think that she would rather have half of Ragnar, than none of him at all.

Harbard have given her something to believe in. And he had made her hope and dream and feel something other than despair. But now he too is gone, leaving Aslaug alone to face the consequences. And she is afraid that when Ragnar learns of what has transpired, she will never have any of him again.

The horns sound, announcing the return of their warriors and a fresh wave of nervousness take over.

Aslaug dresses quickly, knowing if she is not present as the boats dock, he will become suspicious. There must be a way out of this.

The first boat in carries Ragnar and she sees him bend down to pick up something…her heart drops when she sees him carrying Lagertha and walking toward her. Her face gives her away as Ragnar stops to look at her.

“What has happened?” He demands. It’s a direct accusation and she feels as if he may already know.

Rollo steps off the boat looking for and calling to Siggy.

“Siggy! Siggy!” She backs away from Ragnar and turns to speak to Rollo.

“Siggy is dead.” The look on his face cuts her to pieces.

“When?! How?!” Rollo is devastated as he brushes past her, almost spinning her around and when she looks up, she sees fire in Ragnar’s eyes.

“We will discuss this later,” he says darkly, moving past her to carry his wife to the house.

Bjorn is next, and he rushes toward Aslaug, grabbing her hands.

“Aslaug, what is wrong, what has happened?”

“The boys are sick”…she whispers. “And Siggy is dead.”

He looks at her with Ragnar’s eyes, but they reflect nothing but concern. Bjorn is the one to follow behind her as she enters the hall to find Ragnar staring mutely and Ubbe and Hvitserk, and Lagertha.

“What. Happened.” Ragnar hisses the words through his teeth, his jaw twitching. The vein is his neck is jumping and the anger rolls off of him in waves. She has never seen him this way, and for the first time, Aslaug is afraid.

“They feel through the ice,” she tells him quietly. “Siggy died saving them.” Ragnar finally turns to her and looks at Bjorn.  

“Leave us!” It is a command. Bjorn looks from Ragnar to Aslaug and does as he is told. It is just the two of them now.

He advances toward her slowly, his hands clenched behind his back. He wants to see if she will lie or tell the truth. He knows _exactly_ what has happened.

“Where were _you_?” It comes out menacing as he backs her into her rooms and right up against the wall, slamming a fist by the side of her head and pinning her there.

“I was…out,” she says trying not to flinch. Ragnar’s face is twisted in a scowl. His eyes a bright, piercing shade of blue.

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about….” it’s barely audible, and he leans in close to her, so close she can feel his breath, hot on her neck. She turns her face away and closes her eyes, her heart racing.

“Ragnar?” Lagertha.

Her voice is low and strained, but they both hear her calling him from the hall. Ragnar turns back to Aslaug one more time.

“We aren’t finished yet.” He says releasing her to go to his wife. Aslaug sliding down the wall to the floor.  

If Ragnar were to know what she suspects…he will certainly cast her out.

**-xxx-**

“What’s wrong?” Lagertha says. He has moved her from the hall to their room, and is sitting beside her on the bed, stroking her hair. Ragnar leans down to kiss her, careful not to disturb her resting position.

“Siggy is dead.” He says, trying to temper his anger. But she catches it.

“How?”

“She fell through the ice trying to save my _sons_.” The last word makes his eyes water, and he fights down the tears. His children are the most precious things in his life, and the idea they nearly died is far worse the second go around. He had not been present the first time to see them sick. But now he is, and they look so weak, so frail.

There is a fine line between life and death.

He lowers his head so that his wife will not see his face. He does not care about Aslaug’s relationship with Harbard. What he cares about is that she didn’t care enough about his children to keep them safe.

Ragnar never wanted Aslaug. She had forced herself on him. She had come here willingly and he had done the best he could to treat her with respect, if not love. She had demanded something from him that was not meant for her, and he feels as if this is her way of punishing him. He has no intention of letting her get away with it.  But he does not speak of this to his wife. It is a matter between himself and his…mistress.

Lagertha doesn’t say anything. She knows she will learn the rest in due time. And she’s exhausted, and in pain.

“Lay with me husband,” she tells Ragnar, and he does. Taking off his boots, and removing his leathers to come and lay in the bed beside her, careful not to squeeze her too tightly, but in desperate need of something to calm the rage in his heart.  

Yet even the feel of Lagertha does nothing to temper him.

He waits until she falls asleep again before getting up and walking out of the room quietly and into Aslaug’s.

She sees him and rushes toward him, kissing his face and grasping at his pants, working to undo them. He watches her, contemplating allowing her to continue to see exactly how far she will go with this. When she gets to her knees and presses her lips against him, it is exactly what he knows it to be, and he snorts, pushing her away forcefully.  Aslaug gets quickly to her feet, eyes wide, and tears of anger streaming down her face. It only serves to further enrage him.

“I will not allow you to try and pass another man’s child off as mine.”

It is not about the sex. It is, however about loyalty to the family. To the children. And Aslaug has betrayed their sons.

“What. Was. His. Name?” It is the second time Ragnar asks the question and Aslaug looks at him, arms crossed, defiant.

“His name was Harbard.” She says it hard.

_Harbard._

Harbard _again_.

Ragnar scoffs. “I do not care if you fucked him in front of our sons, at least they would have been safe,” he turns to walk away but pauses at the door. “I suggest you pray our sons recover. And should they die…” The rest is left unsaid. But the implication and the threat are clear. He is, and always has been a man of his word.

.

.

The winter is long. And their house is icy and quiet. Lagertha has recovered enough to move around a bit, but she is still in pain.  Ubbe and Hvitserk are beginning to stir as well yet remain sickly.

Aslaug approaches Ragnar as he sits in the darkened hall on the king’s chair. Sigurd and Ivar are both asleep in his lap and he is beginning to nod off as well. It has been a month since the return. And the cold, coupled with sickness and the chill between Ragnar and Aslaug, has cast a dark shadow over the house. They are all moving as if shadows of one another.

“I must speak to you,” Aslaug tells him. Ragnar opens one eye to look at her, and nods.  It is just the two adults in the hall. “Say whatever you wish.”

“I am not with child.”

He studies his mistress. Aslaug’s red hair tumbles about her shoulders and he remembers how she had appeared to him a lifetime ago, how taken he had been with her then. Not by her beauty, though he would never deny her that, but by her offer to him. An offer of children that he could not ignore.

Aslaug is still striking, but she has also betrayed him twice. He weighs how to address her.

“Then that is good…for _you,”_ he says dismissively.

Those sharp green eyes blaze into his and when Aslaug speaks, she aims to cut him down. She steps forward, coming close and leaning in.

“You _needed_ me,” she whispers as to not wake Sigurd and Ivar.  “You and I both _know_ that. I did what your beloved _wife_ , couldn’t do. I did what YOU couldn’t do. _Don’t_ forget that.”

At that, Aslaug pulls away and he just stares at her retreating back trying to fight the urge to drown her in the sea.

Ragnar sighs, wiping his face with his hand before leaning back in his chair and trying for sleep again.  Maybe he can join Sigurd and Ivar in this. At least the boys seem to be getting some peace.

Just as he is about to nod off, the doors to the hall open and a man walks in. It is clear by now there will be no rest.

 “King Ragnar. I have a message for you.”

He groans wearily and rises, shifting Sigurd to his shoulder and Ivar into an arm as he steps down to greet the messenger.

“Wait a moment,” he says, leaving the hall a moment to take the boys to the back rooms. He puts them into the bed with Lagertha. They wiggle a bit, but snuggle into his wife’s warmth. It is a reminder that he would still have preferred all of his children to come from this woman. Aslaug will be upset with this, but he does not care.

Ragnar closes the doors to the living quarters and comes back into the hall to talk to the visitor.

“Well?” He asks, folding his arms across his chest. “What is this message?”

“I received word from a traveler from England. He said you would understand.”

The man gives him a package and he opens it, and immediately throws it against the wall.

“Get out!” He yells. “Get out!” The messenger is frightened by the sudden rage and he turns quickly and leaves. Ragnar’s yelling has brought out both Aslaug and Lagertha.

He grabs a chair and throws it, pacing the hall furiously. A still is kicked over, sending water spilling everywhere. He wants to kill something. Hurt something. Another chair. He grabs it and starts to smash it angrily against the floor. It splinters into pieces and he keeps at it until there is nothing left of the chair and he slumps to the platform stairs, the initial rage momentarily exhausted. His head is bowed.

Lagertha looks at Aslaug and shakes her head. The princess understands and goes back to her rooms.

 Slowly and carefully, the queen approaches her husband and sits down gingerly beside him.

“What is wrong?”

Ragnar picks up the package, showing it to her.  Lagertha gasps and covers her mouth with her hand. Her other arm is in a brace against her chest. She is still recovering from Paris.

“Athelstan…” Her voice trembles.

“Is dead.” Ragnar says bluntly, fingering the gold cross necklace that has been delivered to them.  “And we cannot avenge him.”

And they can’t. Individual blood feuds cost lives. They cannot risk their own people for the life of a Christian man, no matter how furious they are. No matter how precious to them he was. But King Ecbert will die. This they will ensure. And it will come in its own due time.

Lagertha knows her husband is pained. His grief is so apparent. Now that his rage has subsided, his eyes are bright with unshed tears, and his lips are turned down—all the signs are there. Athelstan was his most trusted companion and Lagertha knows during the long years of her absence, the priest had stepped in to fill certain tasks she had vacated. Like advisor. Confidant. Consoler and friend to and for her husband.

Ragnar places Athelstan’s cross around his neck. And the next day he shaves his head in honor of the priest. The next tattoos on his head are ones for his Christian friend. They are carved alongside those of his wife, and his children and his accomplishments.

.

.

She is tired of winter all ready.

Lagertha has not been this sick in a very long time. Just as her shoulder was beginning to feel better, the nausea began, and it has not let up. Most mornings for the past few weeks have found her using the bath bucket. And every time she throws up, her shoulder hurts. It’s been one bad thing after another.

Her injury has shaken Ragnar, and she knows Athelstan’s death has cut him deep. She is observant enough to tell that something seriously wrong between her husband and his mistress; it is in the way Aslaug goes out of her way to avoid him. Lagertha does not approve of what she sees, and so she seeks out the princess.

 She finds Aslaug outside on the porch and comes to sit beside her.

“What is wrong between you and Ragnar?” She asks.

 Aslaug stares out into the streets, wrapping her arms around herself.

“It’s my fault Siggy died,” she says.

“How?”

Aslaug turns to her.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is for me? I am a mistress, not a wife. I am effectively a prisoner—trapped here because of my children, and I cannot leave even if I wanted to because Ragnar loves them and I know he would hunt me to the ends of the earth if I were to leave with them. I am miserable. I am lonely. And Siggy died because I loved another man, and my children paid for it.  Now YOUR HUSBAND is punishing me as well.”

They have never shared this many words. It is the most honest Aslaug has ever been, and Lagertha takes several deep breaths trying to form her thoughts into something audible. She has come to accept Aslaug as a part of their family, but she has never really considered the princess’s feelings. She can see now that just as she suffered in the early years, Aslaug is struggling now. As a woman, she understands the sort of desperation Aslaug must feel. Throughout Ragnar and Lagertha’s long estrangement, she was never truly lonely, as the separation was by her choice. But Aslaug has not had such a luxury.

“ _Why_ did you choose Ragnar?” Lagertha asks, watching her face closely. “You are a princess, he was just an Earl. Your title was superior to his. Your home superior as well. Why did you come here? I am certain that becoming the wife of a farming man was not high on your list of priorities.”

She has raised this question once before. She waits to see if the answer will be different now.

“I knew he wanted children. The gods showed me this.  And I believed eventually if I bore them, he would come to love me. But he never did. And now, he hates me.”

This was not fate. It was choice.

“Why did Siggy die? How did the children get on the lake?”

Aslaug lowers her eyes. “I was with another man…I…left them alone.”

“I understand,” Lagertha says remembering her relationship with Kalf. It was what she needed to soothe the pain. To relieve the physical frustrations that had built over four years of separation. It was what was needed to begin to heal her bruised heart.

“Why do you stay, Aslaug?”

“Where would I go? I stay for my children. I do not want to leave them. I cannot imagine being apart from them.”

They sit in silence, two women, contemplating their relationship with the same man. It is a heavy silence, filled with many unspoken things.

.

.

The nausea abates, thankfully. But now her dresses aren’t fitting right. She has regained movement in her shoulder and is finally free of the brace, though there is residual tenderness.  The days are becoming warmer and they have made it through the worst of winter. They’ve been home from Paris about three months now, and the children are back to running around, chased by their father.

Ragnar has not spoken to Aslaug in this time, however the tension has abated somewhat. There is a fragile truce in the house.

The children run screaming into his suite as he chases them, but they all come to a stop as they watch Lagertha muttering to herself and fuming as she tosses clothing all over the place. He leans down to his sons whispering to them ushering them out.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

She looks at him huffily. “Trying to find something to wear. Apparently I’ve gained weight and nothing fits right.”

It triggers something in the back of his mind, and he comes to pull her against his chest, letting his hands feel up her curves, caress her stomach. Her belly feels slightly round and her hips…fuller. When he gets to her breasts and squeezes them, she winces. “Ow.”

Ragnar takes a step back to appraise his wife, a tiny smile playing on his lips. He shakes his head.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She snaps and he wonders whether he should tell her, slightly surprised that she has not already figured it out on her own.

“My wife…” he says gently, moving them to sit on the bed. “When was the last…time?”

“Last night, for your information, or did you forget already?”

He chuckles a bit then tries the question again.

“I mean…when was the last time you had _your_ time?” He’s not into counting dates, but he knows that this is how women know if they are with child.

Lagertha thinks about it for a minute. The last time was…hmmm…right before they left for Paris? No they can’t be right…but…no, yes. Yes. That’s when it was.

 Oh shit.

Oh no. Oh, no no no no no….

Ragnar watches her face as it flashes different emotions. Panic, fear, sadness, grief…hope…and then…nothing.

She moves away from him slowly and finally settles on a plain shift. She grabs her cloak and begins to head out the door.

“Where are you going?” He calls to her, and she turns to him.

“The midwife,” she says.

“I will go with you.”

He gets no argument.

The midwife provides confirmation and Ragnar feels elated. Another child! They will have another child. But his joy is tempered when he looks at Lagertha, and he knows she doesn’t feel the same.

“The seer said no more children,” she tells him despondently when they are back home and secluded in their rooms. Lagertha is settled in a chair, staring off at nothing.  And he realizes his wife is afraid--afraid of losing this child as they lost the last.

He understands that fear. The last time, she lost four children; their daughter Gyda, their unborn son, another child taken before it could even begin quickening, and Kalf’s baby. Lagertha’s fear is legitimate, but he will not allow her to wallow in it, nor will he allow her to sabotage herself. Not this time.

“All I ask is that you try, my love.” He says, coming to kneel in front of her and resting his chin on her thigh.  She looks down at him with sad eyes, but nods.

.

.

They clear months four and five, but month six has them both nervous. This is when it happened the last time, and Lagertha is physically ill with terror. Ragnar sits on the bed, rubbing her back as she rocks back and forth.

 “You have got to calm down, my love. Please calm down…” He is trying to sooth her, to little effect.

“I am trying!” But it comes through gritted teeth. She barely eats, and she is jumpy and anxious. The day of the last miscarriage draws closer, and on the anniversary, Ragnar and Lagertha stay in their rooms as he holds her, and she cries.

There are many days and nights like this. Ragnar by her side, coaxing his wife through her pregnancy.

At month eight some of her fear has abated, and Lagertha is heavily pregnant. He can’t help but smile as his wife waddles around the hall. It turns him on, really. It always has. This is when she is at her crankiest—in a permanent state of discomfort, and also perpetually aroused. For him, it means she is demanding, and he is a very willing participant in providing if not comfort, relief.

The baby is very active, and he can feel it moving beneath his hand as he enters his wife from behind. He’s curled around her as she lays on her side moaning from his ministrations. He does not think she could possibly be tighter. Or hotter. And he begins to thrust eagerly.

And suddenly, she is wet. Wetter than she has ever been and he’s in the middle of an orgasm when Lagertha’s water breaks.

It is early.

He scrambles to his feet and throws on his pants and bangs on Aslaug’s door. She comes to it groggily and he tells her that Lagertha is in labor.

“Go get the midwife,” she directs and he leaves quickly, forgetting he has on no shirt or shoes.

When he arrives at the midwife’s door she looks at him startled. It is late in the night, and her king is shirtless and barefoot before her.  It is a glorious sight, and she quickly sends a thank you to the gods before grabbing her things and following him back to the great hall. Lagertha is sitting up in the bed breathing hard and Aslaug has already stripped the furs, wrapping Lagertha only in a sheet. He stands back as the women work, the midwife peeking between Lagertha’s legs and feeling inside.

“You’re almost ready,” she says and Ragnar can see the fear in his wife’s eyes. She’s terrified, and he is too, but he prays to Odin.

“All Father, hear my prayer,” he says…” I would give my life to save hers, and that of my child.” And he means it. He will go right now to sacrifice himself, happily, if it means Lagertha and this baby will live.

They labor for hours and as it gets closer, Lagertha’s moans begin to become yells. Alsaug is holding her hand, urging her on, talking to her to try and ease her pain. These are women things, things he doesn’t understand.

And then come words he knows …stuck, and turning…tearing… he has to look away as the midwife puts her hands inside his wife. She screams.  Finally she begins to push, and Ragnar paces back-and-forth with his eyes closed, waiting, hoping, praying… Her screams tear through the great hall and ring in his ears, and he’s bracing himself for the worst, gathering everything he has to be ready to go to her when there is a sound that is as welcome as rain in a drought.

A baby’s cry.

Ragnar falls to his knees his head on the ground, relief and the joy overwhelming him to the point that he is sobbing as if he were a child. All of his children are special, but this one…

This one is a gift from the gods.

 It is Aslaug who comes to his side wrapping her arms around his chest, pulling him to his feet.  

 She has no idea…absolutely no idea how much this means to him…to them, but in this moment all is forgiven as he crosses the room to go to his wife to kiss her face, and her lips.

Lagertha is completely drained, but she is holding the baby, and it’s quickly latched onto her breast and is feeding already. He moves the blanket back to bite the umbilical cord, separating mother from child, and she looks at him with tears in her eyes.

They have a girl.  

Lagertha is 38, Ragnar, 39.

Bjorn is 20. Gyda would have been 18. And their lost son would be eight. It has been a very long time since they delivered a healthy baby together.  

The seer was wrong, and the gods still smile on them.

“What will you call her?” Aslaug asks coming toward him. He looks at his wife and presses his lips to her forehead. “It is up to you, my wife.”

Lagertha touches the little face and leans down to plant a kiss on her baby daughter.

“Ragnhild **”** She says.

Ragnar waits until first light to go up the mountain and deliver the news to Bjorn and Porunn. They follow him back to the hall and Bjorn gets to hold his little sister for the first time. Siggy will have a playmate.

This year there will be no Spring raid. He has decided to stay close to home, close to his wife, and close to his newborn daughter.

They will stay in Kattegat a while.


	16. Chapter 16

**-xxx-**

**(Year 8/Ragnar-Lagertha 38/39, Bjorn 20, Ragnhild 5 months)**

**Kattegat continues to grow as more and more ships arrive at her docks. The opening of the west has spurred a mass amount of commerce, and there are more people and with more people, more disputes over land and territory. Their city is thriving, and Ragnar has watched it progress from a tiny fishing village into a center for trading. He has his sons, his wife and his new daughter. And it is perfect beyond anything he could have dreamed.**

But all is not well in Kattegat.

Rollo is angry.

Siggy had been the one to reign in his anger, but now that she is gone, it is unleashed. And he is struggling to bring it back in. He does not know if he wants to. He watches from town as Ragnar parades his women and children around as if they are treasure and Rollo wonders what he has done to be the unworthy one. All Ragnar has ever done is take from him. 

He had Lagertha first. And Bjorn should have been _his_ son.

He was first to tell Ragnar the tales of the west. But Ragnar had stolen his glory there too.

He saved Ragnar from Earl Haraldson’s wrath and he has had his brother’s back on the battlefield. But Siggy’s death…

Everything Rollo has ever cherished has been taken away by his own brother, and it is more than he can bear.

Rollo wishes Ragnar would have killed him when they returned from Gotaland, but he feels as if that too was part of a plan to make him suffer and continue to do so. How is it that they are children of the same parents, sons of Odin as they had been taught—that one should fall as the other rises?

How is this the fate of the gods? Has he not been faithful to them? Has he failed them in some way? Has he not been man enough? Has he not been Viking enough?

Rollo goes to the seer.

But the old man laughs in his face.

“If you only knew, Rollo, you would dance naked on the beach.”

He doesn’t understand. But the seer tells him more.

“Your destiny lies outside of Kattegat.”

What does that mean? Where? But the seer will not tell him. Reluctantly he licks the old man’s hand and leaves, feeling more frustrated than he was when he came.

.

.

Lagertha is bathing in the stream with Aslaug. They have become closer since the birth of Ragnhild, and the queen is grateful the princess was there. Alsaug proved to be a steadying force and a stable hand, and they have worked together to wrangle the growing horde of children that now surround them. Today Floki’s wife Helga is caring for the young ones, providing the two women a welcome break. And Lagertha is already itching for the battlefield. She cannot wait to return to the seas, and she tells Aslaug this.

But there is something greatly bothering her.

“I am still not fully healed,” she says.

“What do you mean? Aslaug asks. “Can you not fight?”

She shakes her head. “I am prepared for battle, and the tearing has mended but…” Lagertha is trying to find the words.

Ragnar has been patient, and he’s tried to be gentle, but her body still isn’t comfortable letting him in. She tried to hold out at first, but her husband has become restless and while he tries to tell her it is alright, she knows damn well what a restless Ragnar is capable of. To placate him she has tried to disguise the discomfort.  But he has seen right through it. It has been in the way her body tenses, in the way she has bitten her lip to keep from crying out—not from pleasure but from pain. They’ve tried everything. He has tried to be gentle, various positions and now finally just touch, but what he wants—what he really wants, she just cannot do.

 “It hurts,” she says. “It has never hurt before.”

“Ah.”

“I do not know what to do about it.” This is exactly why the elder women have always told the young girls to have children early. Their bodies are better able to recover. And injuries like hers are less likely.

“And Ragnar?”

“He is trying, but…”

She sighs and they fall into silence, continuing to enjoy their bath in the stream. It is a beautiful day. And neither wants to ruin it with talk of Ragnar.

He knows Lagertha understands his frustration, but the depths of it he can’t bring himself to tell his wife.

The slave women are of no interest to him and Ragnar gets no pleasure from his hands. He does not like wasting his seed, so he has turned increasingly to tending to his lands. Some days, he chops wood for hours on end, and others are spent shearing the sheep and delivering new animals. The goats have always amused him and he can play with them for hours. He works until he is tired, and can only fall into bed exhausted.

That way he won’t have to bother his wife.

She is trying, and she is doing it just for him. He knows this when the urge becomes too much and he turns to her. And he knows that she wants to give him what he desires, but the pain across her face he doesn’t miss. And it ruins it for them both. He has tried everything he can think of, his hands, his lips, his tongue…but when it gets to penetration…

Ragnar knows he cannot betray Lagertha. Not again.

But some nights his mind wanders…

And one day his will breaks.

He watches from the porch as she holds a sparring session in the square with men and women. He can tell she is letting off her frustration and that’s good…for one of them at least. But his is at the breaking point. It is likely he will accidentally kill someone if he were to go down there. So Ragnar turns away and goes into the great hall for some ale.

The first mug disappears quickly. And the second. And the third. And the fourth.

He is weighing a fifth when Aslaug walks in. The older children are outside playing and Ivar is asleep in her arms. He goes to her, and checks on his son. And he gets close. Very close. She can feel his breath on her neck, hot, and smelling like ale. And when he presses up against her, he’s hard. She holds her breath and moves away from him, to settle Ivar in his bed.

He follows her. “I need you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“It doesn’t change the fact I need you,” he says stepping closer and bending his head to kiss her on the neck. He pulls her close to him again as he works his tongue behind her ear, and the sensation makes her skin tingle. It's been so long since she’s been touched like this.

Aslaug knows she told him to never touch her again. And he’s held to that. But it’s been two years since she’s had any intimate contact with another man, and she realizes she wants it. Badly. And it is being freely offered…she weighs it. It is only a moment as Ragnar’s hands snake between her legs, fingering her, and the decision is made.

She takes it. Allows him to take her.

They are not having sex. They’re not making love. They’re fucking. He has her bent over the bed, and the sound of their skin slapping together only drives them on. It doesn’t even register in Ragnar’s head what he’s doing. He just knows this is a release he needs.

 Outside, Lagertha’s sparring session is interrupted with a message from Hedeby.

 A man comes riding up toward her, and she lowers her sword and pauses the session as he runs toward her.

“Queen Lagertha!” he calls out, jumping down from his horse and running toward her. “I am Turning. I come from Hedeby with news. Kalf has been overthrown, there is civil war.”

A war. In Hedeby.

“Come, Turning,” she says sheathing her blade and beginning to walk toward the great hall. But she stops as soon as they cross the door, and she hears the sounds coming from the back rooms.

Lagertha turns to the messenger and with absolute calm in her voice tells him to wait outside. He does, and she closes the doors behind him. As she walks slowly across the hall, the sounds become louder. Yet strangely, it is not anger she feels.

In fact, she feels nothing.   

She turns to Aslaug’s rooms and the doors are open so she enters, and she sees them. Lagertha leans back against the frame, crossing her arms and watching  and waiting to see how long it will take before they realize she’s there.

Aslaug sees her first, and the two women lock eyes. She quickly pushes Ragnar back and off her, and he stumbles, pants down trying to figure out exactly what is--.

When he sees his wife by the door he becomes sober quickly.

“Please,” she says with a smile that’s all teeth. “Finish up. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I will wait."

Ragnar pulls his pants up and comes over to her, trying to kiss her.

“My wife…” It's the tone he uses when he's begging, the tone that comes when he knows he's fucked up and is in trouble. He reaches for her, but Lagertha turns her face away and puts up a hand.

“ _Don’t_ even bother. We have got a problem. Put your cock away and follow me, ” she commands, walking out of the rooms. She doesn’t even acknowledge Aslaug who is sitting quietly in a corner.

Ragnar follows her into the great hall and a man enters.

“King Ragnar,” he says bowing. “I am Turning.”

The three of them sit at the table as Turning begins to relay the situation in Hedeby. He tells them that things have been bad for a while now, and he tells them that while Kalf was in Paris, a few people loyal to the previous Earl had plotted to take back the city. Turning says when Kalf and his men returned they were ambushed and how the two sides have been fighting ever since.

“It is just one man, Einar, he was a cousin to Earl Sigvard. It is his family that has started this. There are many innocent people caught in the middle.”

“And why is news of this just now reaching me?” Lagertha asks.

“Kalf was trying to quell the unrest by himself.”

“And where is he now?” There is something in his wife’s voice that makes Ragnar study her.

“His forces are in the hills, my queen.”

“Then I will leave at dawn.”

Turning rises and departs with a final bow, and Lagertha turns to her rooms. Ragnar follows behind watching as she begins to gather her sword and axes, and  armor. She is searching for her boots, when he decides to speak, choosing to focus on the issue at hand, rather than the bigger one he's just unleashed. 

“I am coming with you.”

Ragnar doesn't see the axe next to his wife, and Lagertha turns on him suddenly, throwing the axe at him. He dodges fast and it barely misses his head, implanting itself in the wall. Had he not moved, he would have died in an instant. 

“ _No,_ you are not.” She turns her back to him as she continues moving and sorting and packing.

“ _Yes,_ I am.” Ragnar's voice is hard and he’s becoming more and more agitated. This time when she turns around again, she steps up close to his chest.

“This is not _your_ fight. It is _mine_. _I_ am the Earl, and _I_ am the queen, and if you come near me Ragnar Lothbrok Sigurdsson I _swear_ I will turn you into a _gelding_.”

And she means it. Because right now, Lagertha is feeling a lot of different things about her husband and all of them are ending in Ragnar’s castration.

“Can we talk about this?” He grabs her arm and she snatches it away.

“Go to your mistress. I’m sure there’s _plenty_ for you two to discuss.” Lagertha pushes him out of the room and slams the door in his face.

Ragnar turns to go to Aslaug’s rooms, but those are closed to him too.


	17. Chapter 17

**-xxx-**

**When they’re just a few miles away from Hedeby Turning takes her and her warriors into the hills. Soon they meet with Kalf’s forces. She steps down from her horse and he greets her with open arms and a warm kiss that’s filled with relief.**

 She just nods at him and they go into a farmhouse to begin planning for how they will take back Hedeby. It is just the fight Lagertha has been spoiling for. She is spitting mad, and Kalf can see her agitation. Normally, Lagertha is calm even in the face of war, but her face gives her away, and he wonders what has transpired that has made her so furious. Yes, a part of it is Hedeby, but he also knows these sort of things come with the territory and that she is accustomed to such squabbles. No. Lagertha’s anger is for a different reason. But now is not the time to dwell on it.

There is a job to do.

They strike under the cover of darkness, moving stealthily, taking out the lookouts one-by-one, snapping their necks, and striking them down. And it is going well, until someone makes a mistake—and Einar’s men begin to sound the alarm. But Lagertha and Kalf’s forces are already inside the city’s walls, and they now outnumber Einar’s warriors two to one.  The queen’s people are better trained and the fighting is brutal, but efficient.

Lagertha loves the feel of steel in her hands. And her sword and axes slice easily through leather and bodies as she hacks away, delighting in the battle. It’s the release she’s been craving as she imagines it’s Aslaug and Ragnar that she’s killing over and over again.

 They reach the great hall and burst through the door and come under heavy arrow fire. Kalf puts his body in front of hers and pushes her down, blocking the strikes with his shield. More of their forces enter. Soon, the archers are overpowered and they are able to make their way to the back rooms where Einer is hiding.

 The man looks at them with fear, and Kalf grabs him and drags him out into the hall, throwing him to the ground.

 Einer sees Lagertha and spits at her, earning him a swift kick to the face. She squats down to face him and he yells at her.

“ _You_ are no earl! Just a bearded _bitch_.”

“You’re right, Einar,” she says softly, casually wiping his saliva off the side of her face. “I’m no earl. But I AM a queen.”

She turns to Kalf.

 “ _He_ is your earl. And you will answer to him.”

Kalf is glaring at Einar, breathing hard, his body tense. Lagertha takes a step back and looks to the warriors gathered in the great hall.

 “All hail Earl Kalf!” It is a command, and they repeat it loudly.

“Leave us.” She says.  They back out, shutting the doors behind them, leaving Lagertha, Einar and Kalf alone.

“Kalf,” She turns to him and he looks at her as she begins to walk away toward the chairs on the raised platform.

 “You are free to do with him as you please.”

It is what he has been wanting to do for a very long time. Kalf has always hated Einar for his scheming, and his disloyalty. Einar could never muster the courage to take out Earl Sigvard even though he was one of the many who plotted, and throughout Lagertha’s rule he has done nothing but stir agitation against her, going so far as to ask Kalf to overthrow her and take the earldom back.

Kalf had looked at the man as if he were insane.

“You DO realize she is a queen, as well as a sheildmaiden AND she is married to Ragnar Lothbrok?” He had told Einar at the time, knowing that such talk, if spread, would lead to ruin for Hedeby.  Einar had silenced himself, choosing instead to continue sowing discord among the farmers and the lower class with a goal of making Kalf’s leadership as challenged as humanly possible.

Now, it is time for revenge. And Kalf goes to work with his hands.

Beating Einar to death.

Lagertha doesn’t look away. When he is finished, he sits back on the stairs and she goes to fetch a cup of water, and linen.

She offers it to him and he drinks thirstily. She hands him the wet linen to wipe his face and his hands off.

They sit in silence for a long while.

“Earl Kalf now?” He says. It’s resigned. Tired.

“Yes, Earl Kalf.”

He looks at Lagertha, and blinks slowly, taking her in. Her hands are bloody and there are red splatter spots on her face. Her lips are in a gentle smile and her eyes sparkle as she looks at him.

“I have heard you and King Ragnar have had another child. I am sorry for not sending regards earlier.”

“Thank you. She is my blessing. And no apologies are necessary. You have been…preoccupied.”

His laughter it rueful.

Now that the fight is over, all the other things he’s been repressing come rushing back. Like the fact that he would have loved to father a child with her.

“What’s going through your mind right now?” Lagertha has a way with questions, and he does not lie to her.

“I wish your daughter was mine.”

She puts a hand to his face, and kisses him gently. But he doesn’t want gentle. He wants more. And so he deepens it. And he’s only faintly surprised when she allows it. Their shields, axes and swords are the first to go. Followed by their armor, and he picks her up and carries her to the bed they once shared.

 Kalf takes his time undressing her and she watches his every movement. And when he’s done with clothing, her removes his own until he’s naked in front of her standing at attention.

“What do you want?” Her voice is low and seductive and his response is one word.

“You.”

She opens her legs to him and he lowers his head between them, tasting her again and savoring each feeling. Her fingers pull his hair and tug at his ears urging him on as he grips her thighs to keep her from smothering him. He is ready and willing to do whatever she asks of him.

When he slides a finger in she moans and arches into his touch and when he slides the second one in she pulls back from him slightly, panting.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, afraid that he’s somehow hurt her.

“No!…no.”

He comes to lower his body on top of hers, kissing her gently across the face, and down to her neck, her shoulders her breasts, her stomach before coming back up.

“Only hands?” He thinks it’s what he will have to settle for again.

She shakes her head and wraps her legs around his waist and raises herself to brush up against his cock. It jumps.  It’s his first time with her in this way, and he grabs himself to put the tip against her nub, moving it in circles to stimulate her.

“Oh…” the moans in his ears grow more urgent, and he dips his hips to position himself at her entrance, taking the time to guide himself in manually. When the head slips in he can’t help but gasp, and when the rest of him follows he sinks into her body, he is quite sure that he will come right there.

It is everything that he has dreamed, and she is clenching around him her hips grinding against his waist. Slowly he pulls out, then goes in again, being careful not to make her flinch again.

This is how he has always wanted to make love to her. And so he does, slowly, gently and the way her body responds to his makes him know that she wants it too.

“I love you,” he tells her as he comes, exiting quickly as to not spill his seed inside her, but she’s already riding the waves of an intense orgasm overdue by months and he doesn’t really know if she’s heard him or not.

They fall asleep together and she’s curled under him, and it is his fantasy come to fruition. It is everything he has wanted and everything he didn’t know he needed. Maybe it is the gods. Maybe they are telling him that they are meant to be. Perhaps now she will be his, and he can be hers…

Lagertha talks in her sleep, and one name falls from her lips:

_“Ragnar…”_

It ruins the illusion. Shatters his fantasy. It breaks what’s left of his heart.

Kalf is still in love with a woman he will never have. But she has given him two gifts, her body and an earldom. And he thinks it is enough.

.

.

Lagertha leaves the next day and when she arrives back in Kattegat a few days later, Ragnar is waiting for her in the great hall.  

 It’s been two weeks.

He comes over to inspect his wife, circling her slowly, carefully. There are red marks on Lagertha’s neck, ones he knows damn well did not come from battle, nor did they come from him, and what is worse is that she doesn’t even try to hide them. Ragnar is incensed that she did it. Incensed that she does not deny it. And guilty…because he knows what drove her to do it. To sleep with Kalf. And he knows that this time, unlike the last, she did indeed fuck him.

 _This_ is the discussion. The talk. If they don’t work it out now, everything they've sacrificed to build they will lose. Their kingdom. Their home. If they break, so will their legacy. Ragnar and Lagertha are tied together in blood and oath. She cannot leave. The time for that was a long time ago. And he can't leave--he never will, no matter what she does. It's no longer about individual wants or desires, it's about the future of their people. It's far easier to split custody of children than it is a kingdom.

So they have to come to some sort of accord.

“Are we even now?” He asks, arms crossed over his chest.

His wife doesn’t answer. Instead she slaps him hard before pushing him against the far wall, her hands gripping his tunic and pulling it over his head. She’s aggressive, and she is rough as she strips him, forcing Ragnar to the floor and coming to land on top and guiding him into her. The movements are hard and forceful and he’s caught off guard at how tight she is, tighter than before Ragnhild …

Lagertha is is riding him like a bull, and this is not a joyride.

She aims to break him.

“Has _Aslaug_ ever fucked you like this?” Her voice is low and menacing and his hands are balled into fists as he concentrates on not coming too soon, but his wife is determined as she leans forward and arches her back bouncing lightly to stimulate only his tip and leaving the rest of him aching.

“Or how about this?”

_Dear Odin give me strength…._

He grabs her by the waist and raises them off the floor staying inside as he carries her to their bedroom and lays her down on her stomach across the bed. Ragnar knows what she wants, and he gives it to her. It’s hard, and fast and his moans are loud as he goes in… the grip is tight and warm and it’s clenching him, milking him, driving him deeper into her. But she’s not the only one mad. And he will be damned if he lets Lagertha win this fight.

Ragnar wants to hurt her like she did him, to take back what’s his.

“Did _Kalf_ fuck you like this?” Ragnar growls into her ear, his voice deep and resonant and it goes straight through her causing her to burst with pleasure. At the sounds she’s making he grins in satisfaction, believing himself to have the upper hand. But when Lagertha starts doing something with her legs and her hips and her back, and he feels her walls grabbing him, he knows he is about to lose. They’re screwing like dogs in heat and when his orgasm hits he feels his head start to ring and the tingling throughout his body focuses in his stomach and right out through him and into her.

They both cry out as he comes to rest on her back before his legs give out and he falls backward on the floor, staring at the ceiling while looking at nothing, his mind emptying along with his seed. There is only white noise, white light…white all around…

Lagertha comes to crouch down on top of him and he looks up into her face. She’s grinning as if she’s got a secret she won’t tell.

“We’re even now, husband.”


	18. Chapter 18

**(Year 9 Ragnar/Lagertha 40/41 Bjorn 25, Ragnhild 1, Siggy 4)**

**Ragnar is fishing when he sees a boat off Kattegat’s shores that at first he doesn’t recognize. As it draws closer though, he does, and he groans and rolls his eyes. Not these two again…he packs up his line and rows back. It is the Yule season, and the great hall is filled with people decorating and preparing for dinner. His sons are chasing each other and Lagertha and Aslaug each have a child in their arms. Bjorn and Porunn are there with Siggy, and Floki and Helga are there with their daughter. There is however, no sign of Rollo.**

**He goes to them and tells them that there will soon be guests.**

The doors to the great hall burst open bringing strangers into the presence of Kattegat. Ragnar, Lagertha and Aslaug stand and Ragnar steps forward.

“And you are?” He says stepping down from the platform, knowing exactly who this is. He would know those face tattoos anywhere.

“King Harold Finehair, and it is an honor to meet you, King Ragnar.”

Ragnar smiles but it’s more predatory than pleased.

“I had not heard of a King Harold Finehair,” he says. “From where do you come?”

“Norway,” he replies.

“Ah.  Come, King Harald. Meet my family.”

His children have now all gathered around him, the smaller ones by his feet. Bjorn and Porunn have come to stand with them, and they all now speak the same, silent language. THREAT.

“This is Princess Aslaug of Gotaland and my son Ivar,” Ragnar says nodding to her. He looks to Bjorn.

“My eldest son Bjorn and his wife Porunn, and these are my sons Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd.” He says ruffling the red mop of curls on Sigurd’s head.

He turns to face Lagertha reaching out his hand and she steps down from the chair and takes it.

“This is my queen, Lagertha, and our daughter Ragnhild.”

Harald takes them all in. He has heard the stories of the exploits of Ragnar and Lagertha and he has come to see if they are just that—stories. He had not expected all of this, however. This is a very large family.

“I have heard of your adventures, King Ragnar, Queen Lagertha. You two are famous,” Harold says politely. And I have come to request that I be able to join you on your next raid. I want to see this place called Paris.”

“And so you will, King Harald,” Ragnar says. “Come. Dine with us, you are our guest.”

He had not planned on going back to Paris, but it seems that they will return.

Later that night, once the hall is cleared and the children put to bed, he and Lagertha discuss it.

“I do not like that man,” she tells her husband. “Neither do I, wife. But we will go back to Paris.”

He remembers what Jarl Borg had told him. _There are men who would covet all that you have._

Ragnar knows King Harald Finehair is one of those men.

.

.

Their strategy for Paris worked the first time, but attacking the gates again is out of the question. The Franks will expect it. It’s also likely there will be scouts. And so Ragnar changes the plan.

When they reach the mouth of the Seine River, he stops the boats and only a few of them go ashore.

King Harald and his brother Halfdan, Floki, Rollo, Earl Kalf, he and Lagertha, Bjorn and Porunn.  He explains to them and they look at the cliffs, then at Ragnar and back to the cliffs.

“Floki, can you build what we need?” He asks his friend. Floki giggles. “Of course!” he says gleefully.

It is hard labor, but they are hauling the boats up the cliffs and through the woods. Lagertha comes to stand next to him, resting her head on his shoulder and wondering at the massive feat of engineering Floki is orchestrating.

“He’s crazy as a fox,” she says. “Indeed,” Ragnar replies watching the work.

It takes a month. But it is working, and soon they have made it to the other side, and they can see Paris over the hill.

This is where they will make camp.

Ragnar is sitting in a circle with his family when Halfdan and Harold come up. Rollo offers them ale, and they sit.

“We must admit King Ragnar, we did not think your plan would succeed.”

He nods in acknowledgement of the words. “The gods are favoring us all.” It is diplomatic. Harald and Halfdan move off, and Bjorn speaks.

“Father, what is the plan for getting into the city?”

They’re all looking to him and he stands up, circling the fire thoughtfully. It is Floki who speaks first.

“We’ve already taken the gates, they will know to expect that.”

“And they may have already deployed additional security measures for incoming people…strangers,” Lagertha says.

 Ragnar thinks back over it. Last time they had breached the gates, but were limited to only the market area of the city. They still had not penetrated Paris itself. The only other way are the walls. When this was tried before he had focused all his forces in one place…but maybe if he can draw the fire away…

Ragnar turns to Floki again and Floki looks at him…a slow smile spreading over the boat-builders face.

“I like how think, Ragnar!”

The next day they begin moving all of the trees they’ve felled to haul the boats, and they work for the next month building, building….and preparing.

.

.

The siege is on two fronts. From the north, and from the south. The southern flank draws the fire, and Ragnar orders Floki and Rollo to be prepared to retreat to minimize casualties. They will lead 10 ships, 200 warriors.

Ragnar takes his, Kalf’s, and Harald’s fleet and continues their approach from the north. They sail quietly waiting, anticipating and as they draw closer they can hear the bells chiming in Paris. Rollo and Floki have already began their attack.

The boats pull up to the walls and warriors begin to climb—and climb freely. As he has guessed, Rollo and Floki have managed to draw the Franks’ fire, leaving their Northern end undefended.

He and Bjorn rush to the ladders, climbing as well, and Lagertha and Porunn follow. Next come Harald and Halfdan.

They stand there at the top of the walls looking out over the city of Paris, taking in the full scope and size of the city. They have never seen such a thing. It is vast, the buildings within massive, so many streets! So many roads… and at the center, he can see the palace. Warriors rush past them and into the city and all hell breaks loose below.

This time, Ragnar stays close to his wife as they make their way to the interior. His contingent has gotten a head start, but soon they are swarmed by Frankish troops, and the fighting begins.  He is rushed from behind and tackled to the ground. He stumbles to his feet but is hit again by something solid—a battering ram. The pain explodes inside his body, and as he goes down Paris becomes a blur and everything fades to darkness.  

What he recalls next is being dragged back up to the wall and down into a boat. He thinks he sees Lagertha and Bjorn yelling from the top of the gates, but everything fades again.

He thinks he hears “retreat” but he doesn’t know who has called it.

.

.

“Ragnar? Ragnar?”

“Can you hear me?”

He opens his eyes slowly, and immediately closes them. His head is pounding.

“What happened?” he manages to force out. He tries to sit up and immediately goes back down. His chest screams bloody murder.

Lagertha comes to his side and helps him sit up. He begins to focus on her face and realizes her eyes are red, she’s been crying.

“What happened?” The surge of adrenaline propels him to his feet, but its’ not enough to keep another burst of pain from nearly bringing him to his knees. He stumbles against the tent post.

“It is Bjorn,” she says, and Ragnar becomes frightened. He grabs her wrist, eyes wide. “What about Bjorn?!”

“He’s fine, physically, but Ragnar…we lost Porunn.”

We lost _Porunn_ …

“Where is he?” Ragnar says, looking at his wife. “He’s in his tent, with Rollo.”

He grits his teeth, bracing himself against the pain and staggers out of the tent, hunched over and gripping his side. When he reaches Bjorn’s tent he hears his son yelling and Rollo trying to calm him. He enters and they look at him, and Bjorn begins to break.

His son collapses against him and they fall to the ground. Rollo comes to kneel beside them rubbing Bjorn’s back as the son sobs into his father’s arms. They stay like that, he and Rollo, comforting Bjorn in his grief. He holds his child as if Bjorn was a small boy again. It is heartbreaking, these cries of his son. And he knows without a doubt that should Lagertha die before he does, he would grieve even harder.

.

.

They stay at camp, planning their next move. The Franks were able to repel them, but their defenses have been breached. There’s still the problem of how to reach the center, and now that they all have seen exactly what they’re dealing with, they know it will have to be something drastic. They will not be able to raid the city—it is too large for them all to take. They have gotten something…but it is not enough. Bjorn has managed to compartmentalize his grief, and he is functioning. But Ragnar’s own health is failing.

There are sharp pains in his chest when he breathes, and he knows it’s likely a broken rib or several. And he’s coughing up and pissing blood. Internal bleeding, and possible lung and kidney damage. He knows the signs well.

Lagertha is worried and she should be. Death is calling.

 She nurses him at night, cleaning his skin, providing him water. She ensures the furs are changed, and she strips him, bathes him in his delirium. She massages his naked body to keep the blood flowing and the care she provides is likely the only reason he still breathes.  

Her work gives him a bit more strength. Enough to send an envoy to the gates to deliver a message. He tells his son and his wife only of his plan. They look at him in shock, but he shakes his head.

“This is the only way in.”

When he disappears early in the morning a few days later, Lagertha and Bjorn go get Rollo, Floki  and Kalf to “find” him. And they do, being baptized in the water.

Even though she knows her husband’s plan, it still hurts to watch him climb in the casket and lay there. And when Bjorn covers him, a tear falls. Lagertha must remind herself Ragnar is not dead, only sick. But she has never seen him so close before.

It is Bjorn that lights the fires outside the king’s tent and announces his death.

“Ragnar…” she whispers into the wood, running her hands down the sides of it. “Please don’t leave me. Please come back to me, my love. Promise me I will see you outside those gates.”

He doesn’t answer her, and as she leaves the tent, she just keeps repeating to her herself. _He’s not dead. He’s not dead._

Rollo enters next.

And Ragnar hears it all. A lifetime of resentments and anger. Of pain suppressed. It takes everything in him to be still. He has spent this life trying to save his own, and he has again forgotten his brother. Rollo’s betrayal is on his head.

The franks watch from their walls as the Pagans approach, bearing a boat-shaped casket to the bridge. They lower the gates and Ragnar passes from his Pagan gods to the Christian ones.

Inside, he smiles. Waiting.

And when he rises from the dead inside the church he yells at them.

“I win.”

He grabs the princess and backs them out of the church and through the streets and out of the gates, where he releases her and lets the chains down.

The warriors rush past him into Paris but he is walking away from the fight. When he sees Lagertha she runs to him, and he collapses into her arms.

If it is time for him to go to Valhalla, He can go with her as his last image on Earth.

They depart Paris the next day, their boats filled with treasures. And he spends the voyage back in and out of consciousness. When he wakes, she is there, and when he sleeps she is there.

.

.

Aslaug wonders when she became head caregiver to all of these children. She has Siggy, Ragnhild, Ivar, Ubbe, Hivtserk and Sigurd and they are all a handful. She’s exhausted, she needs help and she cannot believe that this is her life.

 _This_ is what she is now. No better than a slave. Everyone is off raiding in Paris, they’ve been gone five months now and even though she has some assistance from the servants, she feels completely overwhelmed.  It has been six months since she made quite possibly the second worse decision of her adult life. Sleeping with Ragnar again and violating Lagertha’s confidence. But Lagertha’s anger about it has confounded her.

It is not lost on Aslaug that Lagertha has a lover of her own—a man named Kalf. There is no reason she should be so territorial about Ragnar. And she certainly does not understand why Ragnar tolerates it. A part of her believes he had every right to sleep with her and that the queen is just jealous.

But if she’s being honest, Aslaug knows she is still the interloper in their marriage. And she knows that everything that occurs between them—their worst fights—are because of her. Lagertha compromised by staying with her husband despite his infidelity and Ragnar compromised in accepting that there was competition for his wife’s heart. Why is it then that neither of them can compromise for her?  Why is it that she is the only one who cannot have something for herself outside of this?

Ragnar has her as mistress. Lagertha has Kalf as lover. Aslaug has…no one.

No, that is not correct—she has four children. She does not consider Ragnhild, Bjorn nor Siggy as her own.

Aslaug walks the town in a rare moment of time to herself. The children are with the servants. She had needed to escape before she lost her mind.

The slave market catches her attention and she goes there, purchasing a new slave for the house—a woman, different, foreign. She looks interesting and Aslaug doesn’t bother asking her name. She will do. Perhaps, she can draw some of Ragnar’s fire if he’s ever hard up again. Surely, Lagertha will not be angry at her husband’s use of a slave.

 The wanderings continue but come to a stop near the outskirts of the town. There is a figure approaching. She gasps as he gets closer.

Harbard.

Aslaug runs to him, she is so happy and he swoops her into his arms. They kiss and it is like salve on an open wound.

“You came back?” She asks.

“You called to me, and I heard you.” He says.

She doesn’t think. She doesn’t question. Instead, she grabs his hand and he follows her into the fields.

They disappear together for days on end. The children are with the servants. All except for one. Sigurd is watching his mother make a fool of herself in front of all of Kattegat. And he watches this man, Harbard, as he slips into other women’s houses at night.

It’s the final straw for her son when Aslaug brings Harbard into their home and has sex with him in her bed. And so the child tails Harbard the next day, and when he enters the houses of two women, Sigurd goes to get his mother, bringing her to see what is happening, with her own eyes.

When Harbard returns to the great hall that night, they fight. Aslag cries. She screams. She howls and thrashes at him, kicking him out and curses him.  Sigurd watches from behind the curtains as Aslaug throws a chair. Harbard leaves, and the child is glad to be rid of him. He goes to his mother, and finds her sobbing on the floor. Ubbe and Hvitserk come into the hall—they have missed all that has happened. Aslaug rises and gets a servant to watch the children and she leaves.

It’s raining hard, and she stumbles around in the mud crying.  She feels abandoned by the gods, cursed to be miserable, trapped in a relationship where she’s the other, and love eludes her.

.

.

The boats arrive back into Kattegat days later, and Lagertha, Bjorn and Kalf help Ragnar into the great hall and put him to bed.

Bjorn retreats to his home, and Lagertha goes to speak to Kalf before he departs.

“Thank you, Earl Kalf,” she says, smiling into his face. He leans down to kiss her before turning to leave. But it is not a chaste kiss. It is full of love and longing, and Lagertha can only stare at him as he leaves, knowing what he wants is something she cannot give him.

Kalf wants her heart, but Ragnar already has it.

As soon as she enters the great hall she is confronted by Aslaug.

“Why is it good for you to have someone else…but not me?” The princess is disheveled, her hair a tangled mess, and Lagertha takes a step back.

“What are you talking about?” She demands.

“You and Earl Kalf. You get to have your fun. But if _I_ do, _he’s_ angry.” Lagertha looks at the princess and knows immediately that something has happened again.

“You could have stayed in Gotaland,” she says firmly. “You did not have to come here. It was YOUR choice.”

“He never told you, did he? He told you that I forced myself on him, “Aslaug says. “He did not tell you he _wanted_ me, too.”

It is an attempt to spite her, but what Aslaug speaks of is long over. It no longer matters, who started it, she and Ragnar have made peace with it. Lagertha lets Aslaug’s comment go. She knows this is not about her. 

“My offer to you remains. You can always leave. Find a new husband. I will care for your children.”

Aslaug just scoffs, and Lagertha sighs. As a mother, she understands. But as a woman she does not. It is long past time for Aslaug to make a choice and no one can do it but her.

Aslaug turns on her, anger in her eyes, but grief in her voice. “Do _you_ even love him? Ragnar is selfish, and he is cruel. He is a monster!”  Lagertha looks at her carefully. She knows the place from where these words come and when she speaks again her answer is resolute.

“Yes,” she says slowly, “he is that, and so much more. And I _do_ love him, no matter what man or monster he may be.”

She walks away to get Ragnhild and tend to her husband.

.

.

He wakes up with the intense urge to pee. There’s a cane by the bed and he grabs it, and hobbles out of the backdoor to relieve himself. And it feels so good. No pain, and no blood.

Lagertha is in the hall when she feels the rush of cool air—he’s awake.

She has the baby on her hip and when he comes back in he sees them waiting. They kiss, and Lagertha makes a face at him.

“What?” He says looking down at his wife.

“You stink, husband.”

He laughs and immediately grimaces. “It still hurts?” She asks.

“Just a bit.” He leans on the cane. A bath sounds good. And food does to. He’s hungry.

She has the servants begin to prepare the bath and when it’s ready he sheds his clothes and walks gingerly across the hall to slip inside. The water is hot, steaming like he likes it, and he sinks down until it is above his head.

This is good. Very, very good.

He comes up a moment later and she comes to him, planting a kiss on his forehead. “I am going to check on Bjorn and bring him food. I will be back.” He nods and sinks back down.

When he rises again, he sees another familiar face. And this time he just glowers.

Yidu.

“So, you’re here again.”

The woman looks at him confusion on her face, and he remembers that she has no idea who he is. He sighs and rubs his hand down his face as she brings more hot water for his bath.

“ _You_ are  the illegitimate daughter of the Chinese emperor,” he tells her, leaning forward to grip the edge of the bath, watching her intently.

She backs up, frightened, and he laughs bitterly.

Paris has taken its toll.

“How do you know me?” She asks.

He looks at her long and hard. And when he smiles, it’s a predatory smile.

“I know many, many things,” Ragnar says teasingly, tapping the side his head as Yidu backs away from him.

He leans back in satisfaction with the streak of meanness that has just run through him. Aslaug is off somewhere with Ubbe and Hvitserk and Ivar, and Ragnar thinks he’s mostly alone. Until he sees the shock of red hair sticking out from behind one of the thrones. Sigurd.

“Come here, boy. I see you.”

Sigurd steps forward and comes to sit next to his father, his little face solemn.

“So, tell me what has happened this time while I was away.”

And Sigurd does.

Ragnar leans back in the bath stretching his muscles and trying to decide whether her cares or not. At least his children are all safe. And this time the only person Aslaug hurt is herself. So they’re even. He climbs out of the water and begins to dress. Aslaug returns with the kids.

“Father! You’re awake!” Ubbe and Hvitserk run over to him and he moves to the side of the tub to hug his sons. Aslaug lowers Ivar and Ragnar hugs him too.

He looks at his mistress and back at his sons. “I need to speak to your mother,” he tells them and they nod. Ubbe takes Ivar and the boys head off into the back rooms as Alsaug stands in front of him.

“So, did anything interesting happen when I was gone,” he asks, not quite casually.

“Actually, yes. Harbard came back.” He looks at her and she doesn’t avert her eyes.

“And how _is_ Harbard?” He asks. It’s menacing and he means it exactly the way she hears it.

“He’s very, very good.” At this, Aslaug turns away from him, but he grabs her arm bringing her back to face him. “Get off me,” she hisses but he will not release her. “Do you enjoy whoring yourself in front of our children? What kind of mother does that?” He is furious that she could possibly be so careless around his children, again. He does not care if she fucked Harbard in front of all Kattegat, but he knows that his sons have seen things they shouldn’t have. And that’s what pisses him off.

“You care so much about who I lay with but yet it does not bother you when your wife fucks another man! Do you _enjoy_ being screwed over, Ragnar?”

He lunges at her and she stumbles backward, falling to the floor.

“Be careful who you choose to be familiar with,” he says, repeating something she had once told him.

“You wouldn’t DARE treat Lagertha like this!” Aslaug screams at his back as he leaves her on the ground.

When Lagertha returns she finds Aslaug sitting quietly in a corner in the hall.

“Aslaug?”

The princess turns to face her, and Lagertha’s stomach drops as she sees the look on her face. Hurt, anger…and something else…fear.  “And you still claim to love that monster.” Aslaug whispers.

It makes the queen hot all over. Her hands are shaking as she holds Ragnhild close. She may not like Aslaug—but there is nothing in the world the princess could have done to deserve such treatment. Aslaug has not told her what Ragnar did, but she knows well the part of her husband that Aslaug has seen. Ragnar may not have abused Aslaug physically, but it is clear that her heart has been hammered.

Lagertha takes a moment to calm herself. Ragnhild is still in her arms as she walks into their suite of rooms. Ragnar is seated on the bed and she sits beside him, handing their daughter over. His eyes light up when he sees them and he leans back tickling the baby, and enjoying her high-pitched squeals.

“How is Bjorn?” He asks.

“Better, and he’s trying to deal with it, but it’s hard. It’s just him and Siggy up there, now,” she says.

“He is a man. These are the consequences of living.” It comes out cold. Harsh. He is holding his daughter up over his head, balancing her in his palm as she wiggles with glee and laughter. She is their treasure. Their precious miracle child. And she brings him so much joy.

The queen crosses her arms. “The consequences of living…” she repeats. “Yes. You are correct. Bjorn is a man…and I am pleased to see he has become a far better one than you.”

He stops and brings Ragnhild down against his chest.

“Do not start, Lagertha.” It is dark and menacing. But she ignores her husband’s threat.

“Or what? You’ll try to hurt me? Like you did to Aslaug? I would _love_ to see you try it.”

Although a child, Ragnhild has sensed the change and begins to cry. A servant comes in and quickly backs away.

“I am sorry my lady, I thought--"

“No. Take Ragnhild. And do not disturb us.” Lagertha instructs. The child is whisked away quickly, leaving the king and queen alone.

“Does it make you feel better to know you’ve hurt her, Ragnar? Does it make you feel like a stronger man?” They’re both standing now, circling. And Lagertha is spoiling for a fight.

“There are things you do not understand. Do you know Harbard was here? In our hall. In our bed.”

“In HER bed.”

“She fucked him in front of the children!”

“And _you_ fucked _her_ in front of Bjorn when he was just a child!”

It comes as a slap in the face. In one sentence Lagertha has stripped him of his moral high ground.

“If she says you have done anything to her husband…so help me…” The threat hangs in the air.

They sleep in silence that night. And neither woman speaks to him in the morning.

Or the next day.

Or the next.

On the fourth day, he has a thought—but it is not about Aslaug.  “Lagertha,” he asks his wife, turning to her. They are seated across from each other eating dinner at separate tables. “Did Rollo come back?” She looks at him and blinks a few times, trying to recall whether Rollo was on any of the other boats. He had not been on theirs…

“You don’t think we left him behind do you?”

Ragnar sits up knowing exactly where his brother is.

“No. I think he left us behind.”

.

.

Yidu goes to her mistress. She finds Aslaug sitting pensively in her rooms. It has been a week since Ragnar’s verbal attack, but the sting of it has not faded. And it has etched itself in her heart, turning whatever affections she had left to him to stone.

“Princess Aslaug,” she whispers. Alsaug turns to her slave.

“What do you want?”

“Please, do not make me serve King Ragnar.”

Aslaug can see the girl is afraid and she’s curious.

“Why do you not wish to serve him? He is your king.”

“He frightens me. He…knows things,” Yidu says.

“Like what?”

But Yidu falls silent. And as Aslaug studies her, she has a vision of leaves…It has been a long time since she has had a vision. And when she looks at Yidu again, she smiles a witching smile.

“Yidu…do you know how to make tea?”

Because Ragnar has made her suffer…and now, she will make him suffer.


	19. Chapter 19

**(Year 10, Ragnar/Lagertha 40-41, Bjorn 26, Siggy 6, Ragnhild 3)**

**Lagertha forces him to apologize to Aslaug, to swallow his pride. And it is only for his wife that he does this. Lagertha makes him swear that it will never happen again. And he does—he swears on his own life.**

**It is two months since their return, and Ragnar realizes his body isn’t healing as fast as it used to. He is free of the cane, but there are residual aches and pains and he is learning to adjust to them, to live with them. There is a new truce in the house. And for his good behavior, his wife has agreed to allow him back in. It is in a moment of passion that for the first time Ragnar realizes he might be getting old.**

 

It comes to him while they’re having sex, and right after he realizes he may have pulled something in his leg.

“oh!”

Lagertha scrambles off as he sits up, massaging the spot. A cramp, it feels like.

“What happened?” She asks. He shakes his head but he’s already laughing and he pulls her back down holding her against him.

“We’re getting old,” he tells her, and she laughs too.

“Do I need to fetch your cane, my husband?”

“No but I can certainly give you one,” he says rolling her onto her back and sliding back in to continue what they’ve been doing for the past 20 minutes.

When they finish she lays on his chest, fingering the network of scars on his skin. A few she made herself during the numerous fights they’ve had that have turned physical.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” she says. His eyes are closed but he’s not asleep.

“Hmmm?”

“I think we need to begin work fortifying our city,” she says. “Kattegat has gotten very large, and I feel within the next few years there’s likely to be an attack, or a challenge to our rule.”

He opens one eye and looks at her, knowing she’s right.

“Harold and Halfdan?”

“mmm mmm….”

“How were they when we left Paris?”

“Sufficiently impressed for now. And we still hold a position of strength, so they recognize that any challenge they may think to mount would be costly. But they are watching us, and they’re watching you.”

Lagertha has always been perceptive.

“Then we will have two problems now,” he sighs. “Because Rollo is in Paris. And he knows all of our strategies. If we go back to Frankia we will have a very, very big problem.”

“I still don’t understand why he would leave.”

“The same reason he betrayed me the first time.” He looks at his wife, still so beautiful. She’s looking up at him, her hair fanned across his shoulder and arm.

“I am sorry for getting between the two of you.”

He kisses her.

“I’ve never regretted that decision,” Ragnar says. “It was my choice and Rollo’s failure. I saw the opportunity and I took it, and I will not apologize for loving you, or for making you my wife.”

Because this is what it all comes down to. It’s what Rollo told him when he thought Ragnar was dead. Lagertha.

 It’s always been about Lagertha.

Rollo had cursed him for taking her away, but the truth was, it was Rollo and his constant cheating that drove her into Ragnar’s arms. And it was Ragnar who stepped in the night when Rollo lost his shit and tried to strike her. He had beat his brother bloody for threatening Lagertha when she told Rollo she was leaving.

They had seen her at the same time all those years ago, on the battlefield. She had saved Ragnar’s life, and he had gone to her father to seek her hand. He went again and again until the old man finally relented and gave Ragnar his bracelet to give to his daughter to signify his permission.

 But Rollo had tried to bypass Lagertha’s father and go straight to the girl herself. And it looked like it was working. Until Lagertha caught him with his pants down and his cock inside someone else.

Ragnar had been on his way to her house when he heard the yelling and when he burst through the door Rollo had her backed into a corner and was almost about to strike her. They had fought like the worst of enemies that night and both brothers were bloodied and limping when it was over. Rollo left, but Ragnar got to stay as Lagertha washed him off and patched him up.

 He got to hold her that night, and a week later he gave her her father’s bracelet. Shortly after, he got to do much more than hold.

She was worth the fight. And everything that happened since. And he would fight Rollo all over again. That time is coming soon.

“No regrets,” he whispers to her.

“No regrets,” she says lacing her fingers through his.

.

.

He continues to refuse to let Yidu serve him. But tonight is the first time that Lagertha notices. She looks at him strangely but he brushes it off.

Yet that night he has his first hallucination and he knows exactly what the cause is. Yidu’s “medicine.”

He goes to find her the next day and sees her out by the pig pens.

Ragnar grabs the slave by the arm, slamming her against the wall.

“You are trying to kill me!” He growls.

“I do not know what you’re talking about!” She is trying to shrink away from him but he slams his hand into the wall right next to her head.

“Don’t play with me. I have killed you before and I _will_ do it again. I do not want your ‘medicine’. And I do not want you anywhere near my family.”

He releases her and she runs off. He turns around frustrated.

Ragnar cannot afford to be weakened when he meets Rollo. It is how he was defeated the last time. This time he must win.

He storms off to find Aslaug and he sees her coming in from the market.

“Get that girl out of here!” He’s angry and yelling and she stares at him blankly. “What are you talking about?”

“You know full well. I do not want that girl in my house. Yidu,” he spits the name. She scoffs and backs up to stare at him.

“What is the problem?”

“She is trying to poison me!” Ragnar is enraged and Aslaug is trying to maintain a straight face, while laughing on the inside. She moves past him into the hall, dismissing Yidu.

Even after the girl is gone, he starts to feel the telltale signs again. He’s growing agitated, and his hallucinations continue. Lagertha is looking at him, concern etched into her features, and he can’t tell her what is wrong, because he doesn’t know himself.

“Send out word,” he tells his wife one day, while gritting his teeth. “We will leave for Paris in three moons.”

He is struggling to maintain function. And so he retreats to his old hunting cabin where he keeps his pets. In three moons they will depart for Paris and he is trying to get himself sober. But it is not working. If anything, his cravings are growing. Food comes from the great hall daily for him and he sets it aside, nibbling at the edges of it.

Ragnar does not understand why this is happening. He got rid of Yidu. But yet the effects are very, very real. He finds himself trying to remember how she made it, and goes foraging for the leaves and the nuts, bringing them back to the cabin, mixing different combinations—some making him even more ill. He keeps trying until he finds it.

They will depart in the next few days and he will need this medicine to take with him.

The horns sound from the docks marking the arrival of boats. And that night, he goes back to the great hall. But when he enters, all the laughter dies. He walks up to the thrones and Lagertha steps down to greet him, concern in her eyes. He sees Halfdan and Harald and they step up to him.

Through locked jaws he acknowledges their presence and reaches for mug of ale.

“Well. Don’t stop on my account,” he calls to the crowd, raising his mug.

“To Paris!”

“To Paris!” There are cheers and toasting and music starts up again, as he walks to the back rooms. Lagertha follows him.

Ragnar has no idea how he looks, and if he did, she doubts he would care.

His lips and teeth are stained red, his tunic is dirty and his eyes are wild and darting. There’s a snake wrapped around his shoulders. A very large and very much alive snake.  

She comes up to him, wrapping her arms around his chest and squeezing, before gingerly lifting the serpent from his shoulders and putting it in a basket in a corner of the room, making a note to take it back to Ragnar’s lodge in the morning.  He doesn’t move, just stands there looking at her as she goes to the basin and dips a piece of linen into the water.

The water is cold and he flinches as it touches his skin but Lagertha keeps going, cleaning his face and washing his lips. 

“I do not know what is happening to me,” he says softly as she removes his tunic and then his boots and finally his pants.

He’s been holed up in the cabin for three weeks, and every day she has made sure he has been fed, knowing he would be back eventually. But now that he’s in front of her, Lagertha sees he is in no condition to fight, let alone do battle in Paris.

The hall echoes with laughter and music, and she slips back out smiling and making the rounds, while keeping on the lookout in case Ragnar comes back out—and if he does, it’s quite likely he will be naked. This new Ragnar disturbs her. He is not all there. He is jumpy and he is twitchy and he is dirty—and she knows that Ragnar despises filth. He looks wild, as if he has been wandering for years. And there is a weariness about him that is…almost frightening. The man she has put to bed is not her husband. Lagertha has got to figure out what is going on.

Whatever it is, it is only affecting Ragnar, and so she makes a decision.

The next day she rises early and goes to the kitchen where she stays hanging back, and watching. The women are preparing the food and not paying her any attention. The meal is almost ready and they are putting the touches onto the plates when Aslaug comes in. The princess doesn’t notice Lagertha crounching in a corner as she whispers into one of the servants ears’ and sprinkles what look like herbs onto a plate and leaves.

Lagertha goes up to the girl and grabs the plate.

“What is this?”

“Princess Aslaug says it’s for King Ragnar.”

“Oh really?”

Lagertha dumps the plate. “Do not allow anything onto a plate that did not come out of this kitchen, do you understand?” The girl nods and Lagertha goes away.

Aslaug has been slowly poisoning Ragnar, and she’s pissed.

She finds the princess in her rooms.

“Why?! Are you _trying_ to kill him?” Lagertha is rushing toward her and Aslaug throws up her hands.

“No. I’m just trying to make him hurt,” she admits.

“What did you do?”

“It’s an herb, It makes people hallucinate I thought…”

“You thought what? That it would be a good idea? A punishment? LOOK at him! Have you not paid any attention at all? There are threats all around us. We cannot _afford_ to be weak. And YOU have weakened Ragnar, endangering all of us…ALL of our children!”

Aslaug is crying now, and Lagertha’s anger momentarily abates as she looks at the princess. It is unfair, what she has had to endure. The queen sighs.

“Aslaug…you are right to call Ragnar a monster. He is. But he is _my_ monster. You ask how I can love him…I have never been under any illusion about who and what he is. He is me. I am him. And we know and understand each other. I am sorry you have been dragged into it. Still, the damage is done, and now we _must_ move forward. You have been strong. And you have been brave. And you must continue to do so. Your day will come. You will find love—real love, and when you do, it will be glorious.”

Two days later they leave for Paris, and Ragnar is fingering a small pouch in his hands. He is beginning to feel the withdrawals, the shaking and the sweating and he’s fighting to keep it down.

Lagertha sits beside him on the boat and she slips her hand under his cloak. He holds her hand tight and doesn’t let go as he fingers the pouch in the other.

In another boat, Harald and Halfdan discuss what they’ve seen. A weakened King Ragnar.

Perhaps Kattegat is not as strong as it has seemed.

.

.

They are heading into the mouth of the river, and everyone is waiting for Ragnar’s instructions. But he can barely speak, and seeing this, Lagertha makes the call.

“We will sail up river,” she says. “Get as close as we can and then make camp.”

 They come ashore when they spot two Frankish scout ships. She, Bjorn, Kalf, Halfdan and Harold slip through the waters and kill the scouts—but they have missed one. It is Halfdan who spots the signal fires.

“They will know we are here soon,” he says. “Then we make camp here,” Lagertha replies, “And we fight tomorrow.”

Later that evening, she goes to her husband, and she spots him with something in his hand. A pouch.

She snatches it away from him and he turns to her, glaring. “Give it back.”

“NO.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“NO!”

He lunges at her and she steps to the left, causing him to stumble and when he charges her again he tackles her to the ground as she fights him off. It is Bjorn who comes in to find Ragnar pinning Lagertha. This is not a usual fight. And they aren’t in the middle of foreplay. He jumps his father, pushing him off his mother and Ragnar stumbles to his feet taking a swing at his son. He misses and Bjorn lands a hit right across his father’s jaw, sending him stumbling again. Father and son square off, but Lagertha jumps between them.

“STOP!!”

 The three of them are staring at each other and slowly, as he comes down, Ragnar realizes what he’s done.

Bjorn is standing off ready to swing again and looking between his father and his mother. She turns to her son, and whispers to him, putting the pouch in his hands. He looks at it, then at Ragnar and then at his mother. She nods at him and reluctantly he leaves, leaving the two of them alone.

Lagertha turns to her husband and he doesn’t meet her eyes.

 She grabs him by the beard and kisses him softly seeing the tears that haven’t started to fall from his face.

“I forgive you, husband,” she whispers wrapping her arms around him as he buries his face in her shoulders.

“I am lost, wife,” he says. “And I am so very tired.”

“I know.”

There is no way they will win.  Tomorrow they will fall. Defeat is certain.

.

.

This time, there is no land attack. It is only by sea. But Ragnar knows enough to avoid the chains, calling on their boats to lower the masts and take off the stem posts. They will be more exposed this way, but they will also be able to get past the chains, forcing Rollo into the water.

They row fast and when Ragnar sees the forts on either side of the river he knows this is it. But this time, he has at least given them greater odds. The arrows start flying and the shield walls are up. And when the chain goes up, the boats slip under them, forcing the Franks to take to the water. Ragnar waits.

He waits until he sees the Frankish ships approaching, and he sees his brother leading them. He waits until they get closer, urging his fleet onward. Ramming speed. And when he gets close to Rollo, he jumps off the boat and onto the Frankish ship, knocking his brother to the floor.

 Northmen and Franks clash all around, and Rollo and Ragnar are battling to the death.

 They strike with swords, and axes, and Ragnar takes a cut to his side, returning the favor with a slice to Rollo’s leg. He falls as Ragnar prepares to bring down the blunt end of his axe on his head, but Rollo blocks it with a shield, knocking it out of Ragnar’s hands and using the shield to knock his brother on his ass. And then he’s on him, fist-to-face. They roll as Ragnar wraps his hands around Rollo’s neck squeezing. Suddenly they’re pulled apart by the crush of bodies in the chaos and they lose sight of one another.

 Ragnar sees Lagertha ramming her sword through a Frankish warrior and Bjorn impaling his knife into another’s chest. When he turns back around his head is yanked sideways by the force of a blow.

Rollo. Ragnar swings, catching his brother in the gut and he kicks, sending Rollo sprawling backward.

 He’s advancing on him when the horns sound and just when he’s about to put his foot in Rollo’s face he’s grabbed from behind and dragged off the boat, cursing and screaming.

He has no idea who has ordered the retreat, but it is happening and he stands on his boat yelling at Rollo and Rollo is yelling back and their cursing each other as their fleets separate.

Ragnar rages and rages until he burns himself out and sinks to the floor of the boat, closing his eyes, and drifting off. Bjorn and Lagertha watch over him warily, feeling the bitter sting of defeat as they sail back down the Seine.

“This weakens us,” Bjorn tells his mother as she stares down at her husband, slumped against the stern.

“It weakens us in every way.”

“I know, my son. But now we must prepare for battle at home.”

.

.

She watches his food, and she makes sure there are no more “herbs” anywhere around. She works tirelessly to get her husband well. And slowly, Ragnar begins to return to himself.

The defeat in Paris has left its mark on Kattegat though, and it has indeed weakened them. Lagertha can feel the eyes on her, and Ragnar won’t leave the great hall. They will have to confront this. It cannot be allowed to fester. The resentments cannot be allowed to grow.

 “We have a problem,” she tells her husband when she comes home.

“What is it,” he says, sitting on the throne, a baby goat in his arms. She smiles a bit. Ragnar loves baby goats, it’s his go-to comfort when something is weighing on his mind.

“We need a victory. A way to recover from Paris.”

He looks up at the word “Paris.”

“The people are growing restless. There are whispers. We are weak right now.” She’s blunt about it, and he knows she’s right. Rollo dealt them a crippling hand. And they’re down.

Ragnar fingers the cross around his neck, thinking. He has worn it every day since Athelstan died.

Athelstan…his friend.

He has not forgotten about Athelstan. Nor about King Ecbert. And he thinks it might be time to return to England… and strike.

He will announce the next raid at Yul.

It will be the first time he as appeared publically since their return from Paris six months ago.

And when he comes to light the pyre, his face painted in the ceremonial colors, a hush falls over the crowd, and he can feel them judging him. Ragnar takes his time lighting the pyre, and when he does, he stares up into the great flames then turns to face his people.

He raises his arms in the air and yells at them.

“Who wants to challenge me?!” He’s angry.  Angry at their lack of faith, angry with their lack of loyalty.

There’s silence.

“Well? You see me as a weakened king. Defeated! And what do we _do_ with weakened kings? We kill them. So, Who. Wants. To. Challenge Me?!”

He waits, yet still no one rises.

“ _Who_ took you west?”

“King Ragnar!” A single voice.

“Who took you across the seas?”

“King Ragnar!” There are more.

“Who has made you RICH?”

“King Ragnar!

“Do you not _believe_? Do you not have _faith_? Do you think we are done? That this over? IT. IS. NOT. OVER! We _will_ sail again. We will _rise_ again. And we will do it for our families. Our people. We will not do it for one man. But for Kattegat. Now will you follow me?!”

“All Hail King Ragnar!” He turns to see his wife smiling at him.

“Hail King Ragnar!”

“Hail King Ragnar!”

“Hail King Ragnar!”

He allows them go on, then holds up his hands again.

“This Yul we praise the gods for their wisdom. We praise them for their favor. At the new moon we sail West again, to England!”

“To England!”

“There are cheers all around and Lagertha and the children come to him with hugs in the midst of celebration.

“Leave it to you, King Ragnar.” She says. He pulls her close. Paris is behind them.

But they are coming for England.


	20. Chapter 20

**Ubbe and Hvitserk have been training with their father. And at 15 and 14, they are finally allowed to go with Ragnar and Lagertha. Aslaug begs him not to take them but Lagertha flashes her a look and she backs down. Ragnar does not know it was Aslaug who tried to poison him, and Lagertha keeps the princess in check with this knowledge. The boys are thrilled. It will be their first raid.**

 “Where should we strike?” Bjorn asks as they begin to plan.

“I would think Northumbria, Wessex and Mercia have all joined forces,” Lagertha says. “We don’t want a war—at least, not right now. What we want to do is remind them who we are.”

“Yes,” Ragnar says, thinking on it. He remembers Athelstan explaining the Kingdoms of England, where they are how many, who rules what.

“I believe we should go to a place they won’t expect,” he says. “Let’s strike from the east.”

And they do.

 Their ships land in East Anglia and Ragnar and Lagertha watch dispassionately as their warriors raid up and down the kingdom. It is a good opportunity for Ubbe and Hvitserk and they follow Bjorn into battle, the parents backing their children to ensure they stay safe. When they are finished with East Anglia they hit Essex, and then Kent, and Ragnar knows they are coming up close on Wessex. But they do not attack it. Instead, he orders his people to sail home.

Wessex must still wait.

Their boats are full as they return victorious and Ubbe and Hvitserk are so excited they can’t stay still.

Lagertha rests her head on her husband’s shoulders. It’s a quick win, but it’s a needed one, and they’ve done what they came to do.

Their people are re-energized. The base is important, because if it crumbles they do too. It has taken them years to climb this far, and they will not fall. But they are also getting older. And the stress of constant war is beginning to wear on them both.

Friends have died. Family has died. Children as well. And there have been many betrayals along the way. It is hard trying to govern, and even harder trying to keep the people satisfied.

Bjorn looks to the back of the boat and sees his parents huddled together. For the first time he thinks they are beginning to look…old.

 “I’m tired, Ragnar,” Lagertha whispers to her husband. They’ve said these words before, but they are even more true now.

“As am I.”

She sighs and he holds her, and they stay like that, the boat rocking them gently.

There is news when they come ashore. It is Aslaug who tells them once they’re back in the great call.

“King Harald and his brother have taken Rogaland.” Ragnar and Lagertha look at each other. A victory such as Rogaland means Harald and Halfdan have taken over most of Norway. It’s obvious what the end goal is.

“We need to reach out to Hedeby and Gotaland,” Lagertha says, and Ragnar nods silently. They must maintain their alliances. They must restore full confidence in their leadership. At this moment, it’s no longer personal. It’s political.

War is coming.

“Aslaug,” Ragnar calls to her. She looks at them. “We will need your help. Do you still have family in Gotaland?” He has never asked about her family.

“Yes, I do.”

“Can we reach them?” Lagertha asks. She nods.

It’s the first time they’ve ever needed her for anything. And for once, she can contribute, offer something meaningful.

Her life is in Kattegat. Her children are here. This is her home, and while it hasn’t been easy, Aslaug will defend her family to the death. She too is strong. She too is Viking, and they are a family.

Heavy are the heads that wear the crowns.

.

.

Hedeby looms large before her as she draws closer its walls now reinforced, builT higher, thicker.

Kalf has been working hard.

It’s been three years since she was here last, and she is unsure of how she will be received. Kalf was with them in Paris, and he watched as they were forced into retreat. It is different now. Though Lagertha is a queen, and Kalf an Earl, her strength has been diminished, and his is the more powerful position. Still she braces herself as she climbs down from her horse, and she walks up to the great hall opening the doors.

 There is a feast happening and all falls silent when she enters.

She can hear her own footsteps as she walks and the eyes bore into her. But she has a mission and a purpose. Kalf is seated at the head of the table, and to his right a woman holding a small child. He stands to greet her.

“Queen Lagertha. Welcome to Hedeby.”

“Thank you, Earl Kalf.”

Kalf looks around the hall.

“All Hail King Ragnar!”

“All Hail King Ragnar!”

“All Hail Queen Lagertha!”

“All Hail Queen Lagertha!”

They cheer and they toast, and they clap and stamp their feet as Kalf walks up to her and she embraces him warmly.

“I know why you are here,” he tells her amid the clamor in the room. “Do not worry Lagertha, I owe you everything. Come, meet my wife, and my new son.”

And she does. And she plays with the baby as Kalf watches them. It is bittersweet.

He will always love Lagertha, but he’s also found the strength to move on. She is a part of him, and he will follow her wherever she goes. Kalf has heard of the takeover of Rogaland as well, and he has never trusted King Harold Finehair. Hedeby will stand with Kattegat and Gotaland and if they fall, they will fall together. They are more than friends. They are family.

.

She has not set foot in Gotaland in 15 years, but as soon as she steps off the boat, Aslaug immediately feels at ease. Ragnar follows her to her former home, and when they enter the stone house a young man steps forward.

“Aunt Aslaug?”

He’s tall and slender and Ragnar can see the family resemblance.

“Yaalon?” She studies him carefully recognition dawning. “Yaalon!” They run to each other and embrace.

“You’re a man now! It’s been so long,” she exclaims, pulling him to her in a hug.

With a pang, Ragnar realizes how familiar this scene is. It reminds him of his former life, when he first saw Bjorn after a four year absence. He also realizes that he knows absolutely nothing about Aslaug’s family—he didn’t know she had one, he’d never asked…neither in this life, nor the last.

She brings Yaalon over to Ragnar.

“This is King Ragnar.”

Yaalon bows.

“King Ragnar! It is an honor to meet you. Come, the family is here. Everyone! Aslaug is home!” He runs up the stairs leaving Aslaug and Ragnar in the hall.

He remembers this place vaguely. He had come here only once before—in his past life—to lay his head on her womb and to try to hear Ubbe’s heartbeat.

As they wait and more people begin to appear, King Ragnar takes a momentary back seat as Aslaug is surrounded by friends and family, brothers and sisters, nieces, nephews…

Regardless of how it had started, he realizes he could have treated her better. She has once again given him four sons and she gave up this life to be with him. And he also realizes that while he has never been in love with her, he does love her for her sacrifice and he does care.

That night, as they lay together in her old chambers, he tells her exactly that. It’s the most beautiful moment they’ve ever shared. And it’s all that she has ever wanted to hear.

Aslaug curls up against him and he holds her as she cries. Their eldest son is 15.

They leave the next morning with promises to return and an alliance based on blood. Aslaug may not be his wife, but she is still very much a part of his family, and very much a part of him.

.

.

When they return from Hedeby and Gotaland they regroup to talk and strategize. It is Floki who comes to give them more information. King Harald’s forces now number over a thousand men, their own are about three-quarters of that. If they are to be able to defend their territories, they will need more.

“Rollo.”

It is Bjorn who speaks and they all look at him as his jaw clenches.

“We will need Rollo’s help.”

The table falls silent. Ragnar and Lagertha look at each other and then their son. Floki opens his mouth to speak, then closes it.

“Bjorn is right,” Aslaug says. “We should at least try.”

It is agreed. Bjorn will go.

When he approaches the gates of Paris he is immediately surrounded by guards and taken into the castle. Bjorn has not seen his uncle since the siege, and his last memory of him is tainted with the stench of betrayal. But he will do his, for his father.

 Rollo enters alone, and the two men face each other.

“I would hug you nephew, but you may try to kill me,” Rollo says.

“Then it is good that you don’t.”

“What brings you here? And why are you alone?”

“I have come on behalf of my parents to seek an…alliance with you.”

“Alliance? I strongly doubt my brother wants anything to do with me,” Rollo laughs. A bitter laugh.

“No, he doesn’t. And frankly Rollo, neither do I. But I ask for my mother, who I know you still love.”

Rollo crosses over to him.

“Is Lagertha alright?” He asks a pained look on his face.

“She is fine. But King Harald’s forces are gathering. He now commands an army of more than one-thousand men, and they are advancing toward Kattegat. He wants to rule over all of Norway. Kattegat, Gotaland and Hedeby are standing together. But…we need more. More men.”

“I cannot give you men, Bjorn,” Rollo says. “My destiny is here in Frankia.”

“Then we are finished here.”

“Bjorn turns to leave, but Rollo stops him.

“I may not be able to give you men,” he says. “But I can give you weapons. And that should level the battlefield.”

And so he does. And as Bjorn leaves with two envoys and three boats loaded with arms, Rollo comes to him.

“Tell your mother that I love her…and tell my brother that I love him too.”

The two men embrace.

Now separated by distance and choice, they are still united by blood. They are still family.


	21. Chapter 21

**-xxx-**

**(Year 12: Ragnar/Lagertha 42-43, Bjorn 28, Siggy 8, Ragnhild 5, Ubbe 17, Hvitserk 16, Sigurd 15, Ivar14)**

**A meeting is called with the leaders of Hedeby and Gotaland. And they begin to plan. They will focus on each other’s strengths and supplement each others’ weaknesses. Kattegat is sea faring, and it will lead the ocean attack. Gotaland will supply the archers and Hedeby’s warriors will begin to shore up the defensive lines between Kattegat and Harold’s forces with traps. They will all supply men. And Ragnar and Lagertha will lead. They are the most battle hardened.  They will keep their forces spread out, but maintain communications so that they can mobilize quickly. They will not reveal the size nor scope of their numbers. And they will trust no outsiders. This is a time of war. Any mistake is costly.**

Kattegat is a fortress, surrounded by deep trenches and stakes. They have built lookout stands and they have archers posted at all hours of the day-- 100 miles to the North, East and South. They have adopted the Frankish system of signal flares, and those are in place all around them. At first sign, they will mobilize.

It is the middle of the night when Ragnar wakes up with the realization he has no idea how this will end. He looks at his wife, sleeping beside him and he thinks about the trajectory his life has taken. It has been full of new surprises, new adventures, different tragedies and many losses. But it has been worth it just to be able to hold her. At this point in his last life, he was a hermit, living alone in the mountains, wandering in the deserts, begging, clinging, searching for meaning.

Now he has seen his boys grow into men, and he has gotten a daughter, and his grand-daughter still lives. His family is under one roof, and it is has not been easy –they have all struggled—but it has been worth it.

He knows he could have left them all again after Paris, but it was Lagertha who kept him here, pushing him toward the path of redemption. Perhaps now is a good time to die? On the battlefield, in the arms of the woman he loves. It is likely this is a good time to die while he’s still young enough to enjoy it.

Ragnar never trusted King Harold. Now he may get to kill him, or die by his hand.

The signal fires reach them two weeks later. Lagertha begins to dress, her armor now reinforced by chainmail, and Ragnar puts on his own. Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar put on theirs and Bjorn brings Siggy down from the mountain already dressed. Lagertha goes to Ragnhild and holds her daughter close whispering to her. And once the family is gathered in the great hall, Ragnar delivers the orders. He is sending Aslaug, Siggy and Ragnhild into the country side where they will stay until someone comes to get them. If no one comes, they are to leave, and never come back.

He hugs Aslaug, his daughter and grand-daughter. Lagertha comes to hug them too. And the family embraces all around.

Ivar has learned how to fight, and he is an excellent marksman. He will cover the city with the archers. Sigvard will take the port and Ubbe and Hvitserk will follow Ragnar, Lagertha and Bjorn. This is how they will win. As family.

They go their separate ways, not knowing whether they will see each other again.

 At the outskirts of the city, they pass through the gates, gathering their men and depart, on foot.

Floki catches up to them outside of Kattegat.

“King Harald’s forces are about 30 miles North of us.”

“What do they have?” Bjorn asks.

“Oh, much of the same. Axes and bows, swords.”

How many?”

 “All one thousand warriors. All together…in one place.”

Ragnar smiles and looks at his wife. She knows exactly what he’s thinking. A trick of King Ecbert’s. Divide and conquer.

The men from Gotaland and Hedeby are nearby.

“Get the others. We will split Harald’s forces,” Ragnar says sending out his messengers with instructions—where and when.

They will draw Harald’s fire. They may be smaller in numbers, but their steel is stronger, their armor is better, and they have Frankish weapons at their disposal. They will fight in two days. And they will take Harald by surprise.

The night before the battle he is restless and cannot sleep. Lagertha peeps over at him.

“I cannot stop thinking about death,” he tells her. “It is consuming my thoughts.”

She puts a hand on his chest, and kisses him lightly. “Then let me take your mind off of it. Because if we must die tomorrow, I would rather enjoy my last night on Earth.”

She sheds her armor and he does too, and is wife places her mouth on every part of his body. They come together and make love until the horns sound in the morning.

.

.

King Harald doesn’t understand what is happening. He cannot grasp the fact that he is on the losing end of the battle. His forces are scattered and in disarray and his men are falling. This was supposed to be his greatest moment. Kattegat lay just beyond the hills. But the dream is fading fast as he struggles to fend off another wave attacking from the west.

Harald can only watch as his warriors are slaughtered in front of him. The weapons Ragnar Lothbrok has…and the steel. The Lothbrok forces will not go down, while his are failing fast.

Harald blocks another blow and fights his way toward Ragnar who stands behind a wall of bodies challenging him, baiting him to break it. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a glint of blond hair and can only watch as Lagertha takes an axe to his brother’s head. Halfdan falls. And Harald cannot get to him.

Another wave of men begin attacking from the west and his forces turn to try to fend off the attack. But more are mowed down by the force.

“I curse you Ragnar Lothbrok!!! I curse you to the gates of HEL!!” He knows Ragnar hears him. Harald will not retreat. He will die here, and he will take Ragnar with him.

 There is a break in the shield wall, and Harald manages to get through. He charges Ragnar and Ragnar takes off toward him. The two men meet in the air with a clash of swords, the steel of Harald’s breaking under the force of Ragnar’s blade.

 They circle each other and launch, each man fighting for different things: Harald, for glory, Ragnar for family. They fight in the middle of the battle, a clash of two kings. But Harald’s anger has blinded him and Ragnar remains ice cold. He is playing with Harald allowing him to exhaust himself waiting for him to make a mistake. And when Harald charges at him axe raised in hand, Ragnar sees the opportunity. He swings low, slicing Harald across the chest, and has he stumbles Ragnar turns around quickly, bringing his sword down through Harald’s back, impaling the king into the ground.

The horns sound. And slowly, the battle around them begins to slow, and stop, as the survivors rise shakily to their feet.

It is one of Harald’s warriors who first noteices the king is dead.

“All Hail King Ragnar!”

“All Hail King Ragnar!”

 It builds slowly, gradually until the countryside echoes with the sound of his name.

He sees Ubbe and Hvitserk first as they come scrambling up the hill toward him. Bjorn emerges second, his face and armor smeared with blood, and Lagertha comes last blood dripping from her sword and axe, looking like a vengeful fury.

This is power. This is strength. This is the legacy Ragnar and Lagertha will leave for their children. There is only one more task to complete before he dies. But in order to prepare for that journey, he and his wife must rest.

They now rule over all of Norway…and Denmark. They have secured their places in Valhalla. Now, finally, they can allow their children to begin to lead.


	22. Chapter 22

**Ten years. His lands have been at peace for 10 long years. There is no war in Norway or Denmark—his empire stretches to both. It is unprecedented. And in that time, an entire new generation of children has been born, raised on the stories of Ragnar and Lagertha. Their names are known everywhere, and his people are prosperous. They have focused their efforts elsewhere, and new places are being discovered every year. He and his wife are fulfilling their dream—to settle new places and farm.  No fighting means more food for everyone, and the sickness and diseases that have ravaged them in the past are becoming less frequent.**

They’ve been having sex a lot lately. Every day in fact. They haven’t done it this much since they were newlyweds, but Ragnar is insistent, and she is still, after all these years, a very willing wife. It’s likely they’ve broken every taboo, and her husband is still full of surprises.

Bjorn found them the first time in the kitchen.

Ubbe spotted them on the docks.

Hvitserk caught them in the forest.

Sigurd stumbled upon them in the hall.

And Ivar was unfortunate enough to see them in the barn.

Ragnar has tasted every inch of Lagertha’s body, even the unspoken place that makes her squirm. He’s been so dominant and so hungry—needy almost--as if he’s afraid he’ll never see her again and is trying to hold on to what he can for as long as he can…and that is what frightens her.

There is a sense of foreboding. And Lagertha feels like the end is coming. So they love as if they will lose it all at any moment.

.

.

Ragnar has lived to see more grandchildren. He sees his sons marry and even Bjorn has found a new wife. Aslaug has finally found happiness too, with an earl from Vestfold and she is married now, and happy. He had given his blessing freely.

It had come about unexpectedly. For the past few years, he has held an annual meeting with his earls and it so happened that seven years ago Vestfold had gotten a new leader. What was immediately clear to Ragnar and Lagertha was Earl Asmund’s infatuation with Aslaug, and hers with him.

That night they had discussed the matter between themselves. “The children are grown. And the agreement between the two of you has been fulfilled,” Lagertha had told her husband. “It was always for the children only,” he had said, “and she has suffered for that.”

Lagertha was the one who told Aslaug to pursue her heart, but the princess had been hesitant.

“Ragnar will become angry,” she’d said. “No, he will not be this time, for there is no reason. Go, Aslaug. Be happy. You have more than earned it. The gods will smile upon your sacrifice, and your strength.”

Aslaug and Asmund were married that same week in a very loud, and festive ceremony. Ragnar had ordered a feast, and had been the one to participate in the bridal race. But Asmund was younger and had beat the king easily to the sounds of laughter.  They had all smiled and danced, and never had the Princess looked and felt so much joy. She had bade her sons goodbye with promises of visits, and had left with Asmund to Vestfold, to a new life, with a man who loved her, and one she loved equally.

Soon, it will be his daughter’s turn. His beloved Ragnhild…his miracle. Ragnar believes he may soon end up stabbing someone given all of her suitors.  Lagertha has laughed at him about this, but he is only half-joking. He now knows how his wife’s father must have felt when he came calling. Lagertha has spoken to him of her preferences for Ragnhild. And he knows his wife hopes her daughter chooses Kalf’s eldest son. He is a fine boy, tall like his father, serious too. Ragnar would not be upset with the match, if it is what his daughter chooses. He and Lagertha have both agreed it will be her choice alone, and so neither of them has mentioned it to her. But still, he rues the day when he will have to give his precious child to another man.

But today is a special day.

 Today he will attend the marriage of his first granddaughter, Siggy. It is a good match. The girl has chosen well. And he and Bjorn have ensured, through a “friendly” conversation with the young man, that the princess will be well taken care of. They gave Tadeas the ‘talk’. And the poor boy had blushed profusely.

“I am aware of how to please a woman,” he said.

“Oh?” Bjorn had asked. “Are you saying you have already bedded my daughter?”

“n—no!”

Ragnar chuckles thinking about the expression on the boy’s face as he and Bjorn held him held upside down on the top of the cliff.

 How he and his son had laughed at the poor boy’s terror! It was all in fun, though now, as he stands before the priest, the boy is looking between Bjorn and Ragnar with fear in his eyes. Ragnar hopes his son-in-law can make it through his wedding night, and he smirks at him once the ceremony is finished.

“Do not disappoint Siggy. I would hate to see my joy in tears from your failure to…perform,” Ragnar says, draping an arm across Tadeas’ shoulder.

 After the ceremony the party moves to the great hall, and the music and ale flow liberally. While the boys have long moved out, they are all here, and Aslaug and her husband too. Once again, Ragnar has his entire family under one roof, three generations and hopefully a fourth coming soon.  It cannot possibly get better. And in a moment of clarity Ragnar realizes that it won’t.

This is it.

He watches as Ragnhild comes bounding by, Kalf’s son on her arms. Oh, how undeserving of her he had been! But he had believed with everything in him, even when the seer said it was impossible, that Lagertha would bear another child. And Ragnhild is a testament to her parents’ love and their belief.

 As Athelstan would say, Ragnar had displayed great faith. As he stops to consider it now, he realizes it has been faith in the gods and in himself that has guided him throughout this second life. Yes, he has failed many, many times but he has always come back and as he remembers Athelstan’s lessons, he recalls the stories the priest would tell.

Of the man Athelstan called Job. The faithfulness even in the face of the perceived abandonment of his god.

Of Solomon, faithfully working to earn the love of a great queen.

In his first life, he had lost faith, and had been punished for it. With the loss of his faith, came the loss of his family, his friends. He had gained title and fame but the things that truly mattered were taken. Like his daughter. His brother. His wife.

In this life, he found his faith and he has been given far more than was ever lost. In this way, he thinks, he has lived as the man Athelstan had called Job.

Faith. It is powerful, this thing called belief. It does not matter whether it is the Christian God or the Pagan gods. In truth, they are all the same—they are the manifestation of hope and belief in things unknown and unseen.

Ragnar’s beard has grown long and gray. His tattoos are now faded and he wears his scars with humility. His body is no longer in its prime and Lagertha has poked him in the middle more than once, lovingly, commenting that he has gained more than a few pounds there. The years of battle have taken their physical toll and he can feel the age in his bones. He walks slower now and the pain in his body is constant, yet he does not allow it to rule him. At this point in his last life he was a wanderer, broken, and cowed, dressed in peasants clothes.

Now though, he remains a powerful king, wearing the robes of his station. And he is neither hunched, nor cowed. Nor broken.

Across the room, Lagertha smiles at him.

 _Praise Odin!_ After all this time, his wife is still as perfect as the day she was on the battlefield. She is ageless, a living Valkyrie. He has given this woman everything that he is.

She is his Sheba. Lagertha’s image begins to blur in front of him and Ragnar blinks away the tears in his eyes as he turns away from the revelry and goes to the backrooms.

Lagertha sees him, and follows.

.

.

“Forgive the sentimentality of an old man,” he says when she settles next to him on the bed.

“You are always forgiven, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

He turns and kisses her, longingly, deeply. She pulls away and lifts her hand to the side of his face, studying him. Ragnar fingers the gold cross that hangs around his neck. He has worn it constantly, faithfully.

There is something different in the air today.

 “What are you telling me?” There’s a hitch in her voice as she searches his eyes and when she sees the truth, her own begin to fill with tears.

“Then it is time,” she says.

“I must go alone, my wife.”

They kiss again, and slowly their clothes fall to the floor, and when he lays her down across the bed, he takes his time, marking each crest and valley every peak and fall on her body. She has her own scars too, light and faded and he kisses each one before coming to rest his head between her legs. He has always found peace within her, inside her, and as he tastes her and she begins to moan he knows that this is the image he will take with him to Valhalla.

Ragnar worships at the alter of Lagertha’s body, and he communes in the flavor of her flesh. His testimony rings through her body and they cry out together in praise of their gods.

He is a son of Odin and she is the daughter of Frigg, and that night they come close to touching the faces of their gods.

.

.

She sees him off in the morning as he departs, and they share a final touch, and one last kiss.

“No regrets,” he whispers.

“No regrets.”

A sense of calm settles over him as he departs for Wessex and Lagertha watches her husband leave, knowing it will be the last time she will see him in this life. She must allow Ragnar to go to his death. And she does not cry. They have lived their lives to the fullest. They have done what they set out to do. And there is no doubt in her mind that she will meet her husband again in Valhalla, where they will drink, and laugh, and make love again.

She will wait for him to come to her, and tell her when to strike. Because it is long past time for Ecbert to die, and she will bring the forces of two nations together to wreak havoc on the English King and avenge her husband and her friend Athelstan.

.

.

He walks into Ecbert’s hall in chains. But he is smiling.

“I knew we would meet again, Ragnar Lothbrok,” Ecbert says, stepping down from his throne to greet him, removing the chains.  “There are too few men like us in this world.”

“Indeed,” Ragnar says settling down on the stairs. “It has been a long time my friend. Let us talk.”

And they do. They debate theology, weigh their fates. They talk of conquest of adventure, and they speak on love as they drink ale and wine.

“I have only ever loved one woman,” Ecbert says sadly. “And she already belonged to you.”

“I too have only ever loved one woman, Ragnar says, and I spent my life with her by my side.”

Ecbert chuckles. “I had hoped I could win Lagertha over with the plow.”

Ragnar gives the king a look. “Plows are a matter of both preference and performance,” he says.

They both laugh a moment and fall into silence, reflecting on their lives. Ecbert and Ragnar have both loved the same woman. And they both loved the same man.

“I have grieved the death of our friend every day of my life since that moment,” Ecbert says, staring out at an empty hall, remembering when it was full of life, and laughter and love; when Lagertha danced, and Ragnar made love to his wife; And when Athelstan and Judith stole precious moments behind tapestries and walls. There had been so much joy and happiness, before the weight of ruling became too much, before he had gotten what he wanted and realized he’d sacrificed his soul for it. That was a time when they were all still young—before they realized that some dreams could only be just that.

A time before the settlement burned.

“There is someone I would like for you to meet,” Ecbert says rising. He calls for a guard and comes back to Ragnar’s side.

They wait as the doors open and a young boy walks in. Ragnar knows exactly who it is. Alfred. Athelstan’s son.

He reaches out to hug the boy and the child comes to him.

“This is Alfred.”

“I know who you are,” Ragnar tells the child. “Your father was great man, and you will be a great man too.”

The next day he is placed in a cage and delivered to King Aelle in Northumbria. He is stripped of his king’s robes yet he bears the torture with dignity, for pain is only in the body, and Ragnar is already on his way to Valhalla. But when his opportunity to speak comes. He delivers his testimony with fire and with passion.

This is how his sons will know. This is how his wife will know. And they will come for him, and they will rain fire down on England.

He is dropped into the pit of snakes, but he feels no pain as his life unfolds in front of him. The faces of those he has loved—Floki, Torestein, Arne, Leif, Rollo, Aslaug, Siggy, Ragnhild, Ivar, Sigurd, Hvitserk, Ubbe, Bjorn…Lagertha.

His body still tingles from her last touch, and he feels her mouth on his lips as darkness comes. Hers is he name he gasps with his dying breath. And it is carried on the wind.

As Ragnar Lothbrok dies, the ground begins to shake, and a great wail rises from the Earth. It swells across England and it roils the seas, it reaches Kattegat, where the boats begin to roll and the wind howls—a wail so plaintive it is as if they gods themselves are crying.

.

.

She awakens to sounds of someone walking in her rooms and what she sees makes her heart stand still. It is her husband, as he was as a young man. His hair is long, and in his eyes twinkle with glee. He is awash in light and he turns to her with that mischievous smile that she loved. She steps toward him and reaches out and he comes to stand before her slowly. They move to kiss each other, and she feels him wrap his arms around her. Her entire body feels light, she feels full so full that she cannot hold it in as the tears begin to run down her face as he brings his lips to hers, making them tingle. She opens her eyes and he backs away and slowly begins to fade, until there is nothing left. And she knows with certainty that the man she has loved, is dead.

“Save a place for me in Valhalla, my love.”

Lagertha goes back to sleep, and in her dreams she sees Ragnar walking up to the gates, Odin by his side.


	23. Chapter 23

**It is the largest army ever assembled. 500 ships. More than 10,000 men. They have come from all over Scandanavia, allies and enemies united under the Raven banner of Lothbrok. They are ready for war. Leaders from every hamlet and earldom, kings and queens are gathered in the great hall preparing for the battle that is to come.**

But it all falls silent when the doors open, and the people part, and Rollo walks in.

Lagertha steps down from the throne and comes to greet him and  welcomes him with open arms. Bjorn comes to hug him too, and all of the children. This blood. And this war. And they will always rise and fall together.

And when they come over the hills of Northumbria and King Aelle sees the forces gathered, he catches the glint of long blond hair, and he knows immediately who it is that has come to the shores of his kingdom. Though he has never set eyes on her, she is the image the people have spoken of, the woman warrior, the vengeful angel, the beautiful demon...

Aelle sees the wife of Ragnar Lothbrok leading an army of such size and scale as has never seen before. He knows, with certainty, this is the angel of death.

.

.

Lagertha orders the charge with her brother-in-law, her sons and her daughter and grand-daughter behind her.  They slaughter all of the king’s men and capture him.

“I don’t believe we have ever met,” she says smiling down Aelle with the face of an angel and the heart of the devil himself, “but I know who you are.”

“Meet our family.”

One by one, the children advance on Aelle, each getting to strike. Ragnhild with her foot, Siggy with her knife, Ivar with his hands, and Sigvard with his axe. Hvitserk with his bow, and Ubbe with his fist. Until it is Bjorn who uses his head.

“You killed my husband,” Lagertha says calmly looking the dying man in the eye. “But you cannot kill my people.”

Aelle is dragged to a fallen tree and draped across it. Bjorn hands his mother her sword, and she uses it to split the skin down his back. He screams as she peels the skin away, revealing his ribs.

 The axe goes to Ragnhild first. And she’s crying, tears of anger.

“This is from my father,” she says when she breaks the first one.

“And this one is from me.”

Lagertha and Rollo look on.

"Ragnar would be pleased," he tells her.

**.**

**.**

King Ecbert knows they are coming, and he also knows who is leading them. He has already sent his son and his wife and their children away. He will face his death alone.

The doors of his hall burst open, and she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Her face and hands are covered in blood, her hair is streaked with it, and she is like the goddess Diana coming to deliver his soul straight to Hell.

“King Ecbert,” Lagertha says coming to stand before him. For the first time he notices the ones around her. He recognizes Bjorn but the others he does not know.

“You should meet our children. You already know Bjorn.” Ecbert looks at Bjorn who is squatting down sharpening his axe.

“And this is Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Ivar, Siggy and our daughter Ragnhild. These are the children of Ragnar Lothbrok. They are our legacy.”

Ecbert looks at Lagertha and bows at her feet.

“You have always been my queen.”

“And you have always disgusted me.”

It is a blow to his heart, his pride and she backs away as the children circle him.

“You slaughtered my people. You killed my friend. And you sent my husband to his death. Now tell me, King Ecbert, how would you like to die?”

.

.

Ragnar is standing at the gates of Valhalla, waiting. He is looking out over the valley when she sees her approach, her golden hair glinting in the sun. He knows it’s her. He has waited a long time.

She sees him standing before her and takes off at a run, and he does too. They meet together in the fields and fall onto the grass laughing and holding and kissing one another. He grabs her hand and pulls her up and guides her up the stairs.

“Come, there are people you must meet.”

Lagertha follows Ragnar into the great hall of Valhalla, and she is met with a loud cheer. They are here. They are all here. All of their friends, her daughter Gyda and even their unborn son. She is caught up in love and it is all so wonderful.

Ragnar takes her hand again pulling her to the stairs. They begin to climb. And climb. And climb. Until the reach a great door. It parts for them and they enter to the thunderous applause of the gods themselves. Before them come Odin and Frigg. Ragnar turns to her and smiles.

“Touch them,” he tells his wife, and she extends her hand to touch Frigg as Ragnar touches Odin. The white light becomes blinding as they are absorbed into their gods.

Odin and Frigg inhale deeply and look at each other, seeing Ragnar and Lagertha in each other’s eyes. They touch faces gently, and then foreheads. Noses too.

“I love you.”

They say it at the same time.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has taken the time to read and review! For those who haven't please share your thoughts, I would love to hear them.
> 
> If there's something you'd like to see written, please let me know. I'm always on the hunt for story ideas. 
> 
> Coming soon: Ragertha Modern AU. Check out "The Gambit" for hints of what's to come.


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